


hey hey honey, don't be a fool (just walk)

by kitmarlowed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Hospitals, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, au from the first episode, for all of that surprisingly it has a pretty positive outlook on the world, insomia, mentions of drugs and addiction, oh look how happy the tags are, undereating, you should have seen the earlier drafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmarlowed/pseuds/kitmarlowed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stop this, Sherlock. This pretending not to feel. I know you have a heart that’s why you’re here trussed up to machines to keep you stable. You know they told me you were so weak when they brought you in that they thought they might lose you? That you hadn’t been eating properly for at least two weeks. You lied to me.”</p><p>Sherlock lost his boyfriend Jim two years ago. He's still picking up the pieces, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> the elementary au no one wanted or needed.

It’s only when he hears John shuffle into the kitchen that he realises he’s been up all night. Which is… worrying. _Mental_ , even. That’s what Mycroft means every time he sends a text asking about his state of mind. Hardly the most subtle way of asking how far Sherlock is away from a mental breakdown. He likes to think he’s clever and subtle and menacing, threatening, Mycroft does but most of the time he’s just painfully predictably and stunningly obvious. It’s only the casual corrections in Sherlock’s deductions that really surprise but then again he can always rely on there being some in any conversation they have face to face – he just never knows what they’ll be specifically, _obviously._

He hears the kettle being flicked on and start boiling. John sighs. Sherlock doesn’t think he’ll be able to get to his bedroom undetected; he isn’t exactly in prime condition for stealth. He aches; the muscles of his back are stiff and protest when he shifts them. The pain isn’t even dull from sleep because he never got any - just kept awake by the low and constant whirr of his mind. John wouldn’t understand, he tells himself, there’ve been no cases and so logically Sherlock ought to have got some sleep – no reason for him to stay awake all night. There wasn’t evidence to pore over, no research to do. Nothing.

He’s not going to admit the whys, lying always seems preferable.

“Tea or coffee?” he calls and he can almost imagine the start John makes from the small bang and the rattle of a dropped spoon.

“Coffee.” John sounds unhappy; Sherlock imagines the frown, little to no sleep for both of them, then. “I thought you were still in your room.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Thought or hoped?”

If John notices that Sherlock is wearing the same clothes as the last time they saw each other he doesn’t comment. He just places the cup of coffee in front of Sherlock and takes his own seat.

“I just didn’t hear you, is all.”

“Obviously.”

John sighs and cradles the steaming mug close to his, still pyjama-clad, chest. “Any cases?”

“Haven’t checked.”

“Unlike you.”

“Phone’s in the kitchen.”

“Your laptop’s here, Sherlock. All you’d have to do is reach if you can’t be bothered to stand up.”

Sherlock can’t be bothered to reply. His head hurts.

John tires of this game quickly, it’s something Sherlock continues to notice. John rarely seems to have the energy to hold up an argument when Sherlock plays at being more abstinent than usual.

“What do you think’s wrong with them then?”

Sherlock frowns, confused at John’s non sequitur. “What’s wrong with who?”

“The criminals,” John says as if it’s the most obvious question in the world. “Why d’you think all the cases have dried up?”

Sherlock shrugs, directing his sneer at his hands rather than anything else. “I don’t think it’s something wrong with criminals so much as Scotland Yard showing some remarkable competence. I suppose they have to at some point or other, or they’d be unemployed.”

“Lestrade’s rather good at his job actually.”

“Rather good for the Met Police isn’t too great a standard though, is it?”

“Well they got by before you didn’t they?”

He scowls. “Just about.”

“What’s wrong with you this morning? You’re always annoying, yeah alright, but you aren’t usually this argumentative.”

It’s easier to blame it on the lack of cases, so that’s what he says.

John seems to accept this and finishes his coffee in a couple of gulps. “We need more milk,” he says getting up. “I’ll go to the shop in a bit, anything you need?”

“More nicotine patches.”

“You’ve got packets in the bathroom.”

“Can never be overstocked.”

“I’ll see if they’re on offer, God I need to get a job.”

“Oh? Boring.”

“Necessary if we want to keep eating actual food and if you want to stock up on more nicotine patches than you’ll need.”

Sherlock doesn’t think that really needs a reply and John doesn’t wait for one. He hears the running water as John rinses the mug out.

He swirls the cooling coffee on his tongue and listens to John wander to the bathroom and the crashing of the water as the shower turns on. By the creaking of the floorboards John’s leg is playing up or rather his mind is playing a trick on him again. Sherlock feels oddly sympathetic to it now, given the circumstances. Psychosomatic limp for John, insomnia for Sherlock. Their traumas, he supposes, though, couldn’t be more different no matter how often he feels that his mind is a war-zone.

Sherlock makes his way to his bedroom and contemplates crawling into bed before opting on just a simple change of clothes. From the table by his undisturbed bed his phone buzzes a little insistently. He checks it with his shirt half on – just Mycroft, three times.

 _How are you managing? MH_  
Sherlock. I’d answer me if you don’t want a visit. MH  
I’m on my way, make sure you’re decent. MH

Well, fuck. That last text is timestamped as five or six minutes ago and Mycroft can’t be far away. Sherlock throws on a new shirt and doesn’t bother with a change of trousers or a jacket. He bangs on the bathroom door as he passes and shouts his bad news at John. He hears a spluttering and a muffled yelp and assumes his message has been understood.

It takes Mycroft exactly two more minutes to arrive, and Sherlock sits, waiting.

“Do you wish to have this conversation in front of John?” is all Mycroft asks when he arrives, brushing imaginary lint off of his shoulders and carrying that stupid umbrella as per.

“He’s in the shower,” an unnecessary answer but still. “I doubt he’d be able to hear unless he really tried and I don’t think he’s too bothered by our usual conversations.”

“I dare say he’ll be bothered by this one,” Mycroft smiles in his self-satisfied way and Sherlock scowls, indulging the petulance he really does ordinarily go at least a little out his way to stem.

“I don’t want him to know until I tell him personally Mycroft.”

Mycroft holds out his hands in mock surrender and Sherlock keeps the glare and scowl steady. “What do you want?”

“To check on you, brother dearest. I do worry, especially at this time.”

Sherlock bristles and sits up straight. “Well, you’ve checked on me,” he grumbles. “You can leave now.”

“As good as I am, Sherlock, I’m not a psychiatrist and you’re at least a competent liar.” Sherlock can’t fault him that. “I meant to check on your mental wellbeing.”

“I’m not about to relapse, Mycroft. I’m not that stupid.”

Mycroft pulls a face. “The last time you said that I got a call from your Inspector telling me he’d had to talk you down from Millennium Bridge. The wrong side of the railings, no less.”

“It won’t come to that,” Sherlock says evenly, as if saying it will make him believe it, will make it true.

Mycroft sees through that lie easily and replies “Even yoy can’t be certain of that, Sherlock. It’s not like you are in full control when you get like this.”

“Get like what?” he mimics.

“Depressed. Insomniac. You can’t fool me on that score, Sherlock, not even with a change of clothes. The dark circles alone.”

Sherlock stands. “I’m not depressed.” He doesn’t bother to deny the insomnia; there’d be no use in it. A waste of effort and breath.

“No,” Mycroft allows, quietly, and Sherlock flinches from the soft care he witnesses in that moment. “Not yet.” It’s gone as quick as it came. “It’s only a matter of time, probably.”

Sherlock recoils as if hit. The words do sting. He isn’t sure whether the patter of John’s feet from the bathroom to his own bedroom is a welcome interruption or not. He just stares at his brother in silence.

“Oh Sherlock.” Mycroft sighs again, nudging the table leg with his impeccably polished shoe and Sherlock stands stock still. “You know I don’t mean to hurt you, but come now you really must get over this now. It’s been two years.”

“ _Almost_ two years.” He’s glad it doesn’t sound as torn out of him as it felt.

“Let it go, Sherlock. What’s the phrase? Let the dead lie?”

Sherlock snaps and strides at Mycroft, grabbing his pressed lapels and pushing him back a step. “He is _not_ dead, Mycroft,” he snarls. “And I will never ‘ _let it go’_.”

Mycroft doesn’t shove back, he just waits and breathes until Sherlock calms down enough to release him and step away.

With a sigh Mycroft straightens his suit and tie. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says at the door. “I truly am.”

Sherlock doesn’t bother to ask what he’s sorry for.

John only takes five minutes from the close of the front door to shuffle into the living room.

“What was that all about?” he asks, the air of disinterest lazy at best.

Sherlock slumps back into his chair. “Nothing.”

John makes himself useful, picks up Sherlock’s half abandoned coffee cup and takes it to the kitchen. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

Sherlock resists the urge to make some ridiculous noise like growling, settles with a sharp retort. “It doesn’t matter.”

John shrugs from where he is at the border of the living room and the kitchen, Sherlock hears it in the rustle of fabric, he doesn’t look up.

“You can use my card,” he says.

“What?”

Sherlock sighs. “For the milk, it’s in my wallet. You know the pin.”

“Alright.” John takes the card and places the wallet back down softly. Sherlock gets the feeling he thinks it right to be walking on eggshells – doesn’t have the energy or care to stop him even if it is annoying. “Anything else, other than the patches, you need?”

“Nope.” Sherlock enunciates every syllable and John huffs before he leaves.

The last thing Sherlock sees before he passes out is the empty flat.

\--

He wakes up and John isn’t back, it’s only been ten minutes but his head is splitting and he feels sick. The voice in his head that’s stolen John’s to tell him anything medically relevant to cases in the Doctor’s absence tells him that he passed out from lack of food. He hadn’t consumed anything for at least 24 hours before the coffee just now. Sherlock staggers to his feet and grabs the first thing he finds – an apple. He fixes himself a glass of water and leans against the counter to stop the dizziness. Dimly he thinks that he’s lucky Mycroft didn’t see this, then again Mycroft could probably tell it was only a matter of time even if he couldn’t. Making quick work of the apple but not quick enough to worsen the uneasy feeling in his stomach Sherlock picks up yesterday’s paper from the island.

He’d checked it, he’s somewhat sure, but he can’t really remember and the days without sleep have started to merge. There’s nothing exciting there, just politicians and their opinions and the day to day rubbish of London life. No fantastical murders, no serial suicides. No mention of the name the cabbie had given him – what was it? Oh yes, Moriarty. No mention of him or her. Nothing remotely out of the dull and ordinary. He can sort of see why he didn’t remember reading it.

He chucks the apple core in the bin and takes a couple of deep breaths to keep the meagre contents of his stomach down. If only he could risk a painkiller or two, his head really is splitting, but he doesn’t have a good reputation around opiates and if you’re going to take a pain killer you’re better off going big. He thinks co-codamol would be pushing it a bit. The water will have to do then, to clear his head. He splashes some water in his face to wake himself up, John probably won’t notice. When he feels less dizzy he makes his way back to the living room.

John bustles in with two bags and all the curses of London, he looks cold and worn out and Sherlock takes pity on him and stands up to grab the shopping from him. At the confused look he gets for his troubles he shrugs. “You looked like you needed the help.”

“It’s like you to notice,” John says, shaking off his jacket and hanging it by the door. “But it’s not like you to do anything about it.”

Sherlock places the foodstuffs, boring and conventional, where they should go. “You’ve known me all of four months and you think you can safely say what I’m like?”

John smiles at him. “You aren’t exactly secretive, Sherlock, apart from whatever you and your brother were chatting about but if it’s none of my business then I respect that.”

“That was a bit formal,” Sherlock leans against the counter again. “What’s wrong with you?”

The smile doesn’t fall from John’s face but it changes tone, “I just wanted you to know that you _can_ tell me things, you know, if you want.”

Sherlock scoffs. “ _That’s what friends are for?”_

“Well, yeah.”

For a split second Sherlock considers it, considers breaking down the walls that took him a while to build up and are structurally unsound anyway, telling John. But John would judge him, John would think differently and John would err on the side of what Mycroft and Lestrade believe. John would err on what they tend to term ‘common sense’ without regard to the reality that Jim and Sherlock never really fell close to the bounds of common sense. No, John will be informed when it is necessary and not before. Two scenarios will bring that about – the first, if Sherlock gets much worse and/or relapses into some drug habit or other, the second is, well, the second is if any information pertinent to the location and/or truth of what happened to Jim happens to land on their doorstep. Sherlock feels flat again from thinking about it. He shakes his head. “Not this,” he says. “This honestly doesn’t matter.”

John loses the smile now. “Alright. Alright. I got you your extra patches.”

“I noticed.” Sherlock holds them up. “And some raw meats, are you planning on cooking?”

“I’m not a bad cook and besides I don’t think you’ve eaten a proper meal in days or at least I haven’t seen you—”

This lie is self-preservation. “I have.”

John looks at him, a narrow glance attempting to suss him out. “Oh, alright then. I just thought—”

Sherlock softens. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” It sounds a bit hollow even to him.

He grabs John’s laptop as he makes his way out of the kitchen, “I see you’ve found a new use for your blog.”

“What? Oh yeah. I checked your website and your write-ups are always so clinical, all the excitement’s taken out of it.” John smiles. “I thought I might as well write them as stories.”

Sherlock nods. “Pompous has a U in it.”

John grimaces. “Oh. Thanks.” He holds out his hand for the laptop but withdraws it before Sherlock moves. “Hang on that’s password protected.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffs. “People like you generally use a handful of passwords, it wasn’t hard.”

“People like me?” John asks.

Sherlock smirks. “Ordinary.”

Jim used to change his passwords every day and Sherlock could only ever guess less than half of them. He used to stay up while Jim slept and try everything he could think of. Sherlock flinches away from the thought.

“I’m going to the station,” he says. “Want to come?”

John perks up at that. “Have we got a case?”

“No,” Sherlock allows. “But we might be able to get one.”

Nodding, John stands and grabs the chair to steady himself. “I’ll just grab a warmer jumper. It’s freezing out there. Far too chilly for April.”

Sherlock stays silent save for a small hum and John leaves. He tests his balance, the dizziness has subsided but his head still hurts. He doesn’t feel about to keel over so there’s that. Anything else, the ache in his back, doesn’t matter. He grabs his coat off the hook and pulls it on, feeling infinitesimally better for its weight. Sherlock tries not to think of the time he came home to Jim wearing this coat because the heating in the old flat had turned out. It’s the little connections the start it off. That’s how it started last year – everything making him think of Jim, remember events with Jim and then he remembered the night it happened.

John’s presence takes him away from his thoughts and he’s grateful for it. He doesn’t want to lose control again. He doesn’t want to go too far.

“You alright?” John asks. “You look pale. I mean paler than usual. Like you’ve seen a ghost, really.”

Sherlock focusses on John, sees the lines on his jumper that tell him it was folded ever so neatly in a drawer, one of the best jumpers then. He listens to John’s steady breathing and tries to match his breaths to it. “I’m fine,” he says after a minute.

John sighs and pulls on his jacket.

“D’you have any cash?”

“Enough for a taxi to the Yard, yes.”

“Let’s go then.” He raises his voice. “Mrs Hudson, we’re going out.” He’d begun to hear her while John was out.

She calls something at them as they close the front door. It was probably boring. Sherlock hails the cab.

\--

“Nothing exciting, Sherlock.” Lestrade sits at his desk, a file for a boring domestic murder open in front of him and three others pushed to the side. “Can let you have a look at some cold cases if you like but at the moment it’s all quiet on the London front.”

Sherlock looks up. “What sort of cold cases?” he asks perhaps a little too sharply and Lestrade frowns.

“Unsolved murders. Evidence trails leading nowhere, you know the drill. I can bundle some up and drop them round later if you like?” Lestrade won’t meet his eyes and Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to smirk, to make some cutting remark. Not in front of John, especially.

“John, if you go and talk to Sally she can find you some cases, I need to have a chat with our boy alone, ta.”

John starts and looks between the Inspector and Sherlock. “Uh, okay. I’ll be outside then.” He hears John clear his throat as if to incite some explanation from Sherlock.

He just turns his head. “It won’t be a second, John. Get the good cold cases.”

Lestrade waits until the office door clicks shut to speak.

“You alright?” he asks, all gruff concern and Sherlock makes the split-second decision to be honest.

“Not really, no.”

Lestrade fidgets. “Look, Sherlock, I know you aren’t happy with us but you must know we can’t trust you with a live case right now.”

“I am not a fragile doll, Lestrade. I’m not going to shatter.”

Lestrade gets a dark look and Sherlock sighs. “That’s what you said last time, before the bridge.”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly--”

Lestrade laughs. “No shit.”

“It won’t get that bad this time. I’m prepared.”

“You’ve already started to make the connections.” Lestrade leans back in his chair, eyes soft. “Even I can tell that much,” Sherlock knows the self-deprecation is to lull him into trust. “Sherlock you look bloody _haunted.”_

Sherlock flinches. Looks away, at his hands, at the floor, just not Lestrade. “I _am_ haunted,” he says quietly.

“Only because you allow yourself to be. We’ve all lost people.” It’s a testament to Lestrade’s knowledge of Sherlock that he doesn’t reach over, doesn’t pat him on the shoulder, though he can see the urge to in his eyes.

A thousand retorts surge through Sherlock’s mind but he settles with a simple one: “I hadn’t realised you were a psychiatrist.”

“Got to be a little in this job.”

Sherlock stands and goes to the door. “I understand,” he says, voice dry. “No cases for me because I’m crazy. Fine.”

Lestrade sighs. “It’s not because you’re crazy.” Sherlock doesn’t tell him that that isn’t a denial. “It’s because I’m not sure it would be best.”

Sherlock opens the door roughly, his arms protest but he ignored the screaming muscles, and leaves without reply.

“John,” he calls. “Take what you have. We’re off.”

He ignores the sniggers from Donavan, doesn’t take it too personally, she doesn’t know. John gives him a look as they clear the doors.

John catches his arm and pulls him to a stop. “What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“I thought you respected my not telling you.” Sherlock stuffs his hands into his pockets and fixes John with a withering, or at least he hopes, stare.

John lets go of him and backs a little off. “You’re worrying me, Sherlock. I’m worried.”

“Why?” Sherlock shakes his head, the dizziness is coming back. “I don’t need everyone worrying about me; for god’s sake I am fine!”

John makes an undignified whine. “Then will you please tell me what has got you acting so weird!” He throws his arms out. “Christ, Sherlock, what secrets can be that bad?”

Sherlock freezes.

Sherlock walks away.

Behind him he hears John splutter and call for him, but he doesn’t turn around and John doesn’t follow. He takes a sharp corner down some godforsaken alley he can get lost down, or at least lose John – Sherlock knows exactly where he is. He just doesn’t know where he’s going.

\--

 _Sherlock, come home. JW_  
Sherlock don’t be ridiculous. How old are you? 12? JW  
Mycroft’s been round. I told him not to worry but I think he’s got people looking for you. JW  
I’m sorry. JW

He leads Mycroft’s people a merry dance around London, ducking into homeless shelters they won’t follow him into, and taking every unused route he can. He even takes the tube for a couple of stops at one point but they get rather too close to catching him that time. He hides the coat in a safe place and ties the scarf around a railing so he can blend into the crowd more.

He finally lets them close in on him on the seventh floor of an abandoned tower block a good way away from 221b. He’s drawn a picture on the crumbling bricks but they don’t notice it. They don’t care. They just take him by the arms and all but march him to some dark car with blacked out windows and fake plates.

Mycroft’s secretary hums at him. “Two and half hours chase, Mr Holmes. Your brother will be impressed even if he won’t show it.”

Sherlock drops his head against the back of the cool leather seat. “I trust you're taking me home, not to some office or other.”

“Can’t you tell?” Anthea, or whatever her name is now, asks with a smile.

“Effort.”

Anthea does pat him on the shoulder, a light touch just briefly and Sherlock is grateful. “No, Mr Holmes. We’re just taking you home.”

It’s twenty minute drive to Baker Street and Anthea spends the rest of it bathed in the cold white glow of her Blackberry while Sherlock draws his knees to his chest and attempts to calm down, not to sleep per se, but not to think.

“He really was worried, you know.” She murmurs at him somewhere around Euston Square Gardens.

“I just wanted to be alone.”

“Hmm.” He decides he likes Anthea, she doesn’t bother to look at him. She answers the questions she can the way she wants to.

“Why did he bother sending you?”

“He sent me for John too, the first time they met.” She taps out more things on her phone.

“So you run most of his errands.”

“Family related ones, yes.”

Sherlock knows he won’t get much more from her and she doesn’t speak to him further. Just a goodbye as they stop outside 221.

Mrs Hudson gives him a sad smile as he passes her to go up the stairs. “You alright, dear?”

Sherlock smiles the first genuine smile in a while and nods. “I just needed a little time, Mrs Hudson.”

“That’s not like you but I suppose we all need to be alone every now and again.”

“Yes. I suppose we do.”

“Good luck, then.”

He takes her hand a squeezes it. “Thank you.”

Both John and Mycroft are standing when he walks through the doorway, doubtless they heard the car door and one of those rapid-fire texts must have been a notification of an ETA.

“Where’s your coat?” John asks.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Took it off, too distinctive.”

Mycroft shifts his weight from left to right and clears his throat. “Your behaviour isn’t exactly imbu-“

Sherlock holds up a hand. “I don’t care,” he says, eyes on John. “I just needed a little time to think.”

John looks at him, confusion and softness battling across his features. “All you ever do is think.”

Sherlock laughs. “Quiet, then.”

Mycroft coughs again. “Sherlock. Really, you must do something about this… this unpredictability you’ve developed.”

Sherlock still won’t look at him. “Go, Mycroft. Go away. You’ve found me, I’m safe. Leave me be.”

“Safe from w- are you going to talk to me now?” John all but collapses into his chair and Sherlock shakes his head. He’s tired and he’s going to use that.

“No. I’m going to bed.”

“It’s only half eight.”

Sherlock holds up a hand to silence him. “I’m- John I’m tired. Please.” It sounds like the weariness that seeps into every fibre of his being manages to convince John.

“I just wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“It really shouldn’t matter to you,” Sherlock says. “It’s my problem.”

Jim always was his problem. Sherlock wonders if he really is being haunted. Then he wonders if he really should let it go. He wonders if he’ll manage to get some sleep for more than two hours tonight.

He leans up against the door when he closes it, sheds the cool material of the black dress shirt and pulls on a cotton t-shirt. In the wardrobe somewhere there’s some of Jim’s clothing, tucked away neatly. Sherlock doesn’t open the wardrobe and he certainly doesn’t sit cross legged on the floor and sob. Or maybe he does. He covers his mouth with back of his hand to stop John hearing. The sound-proofing isn’t great and this is the last thing he needs. He closes his eyes to fight the stinging salt-water. It takes him ten minutes to calm down enough to breathe properly again.

From what he remembers of panic attacks this isn’t one, this is just sadness, this is ordinary and simple. This is him left alone with the knowledge that he had something of great importance and he lost it. He deserves the weakness, the aches, the chill in his bones, the splitting headache and the stinging, burning, in his eyes.

Sherlock reclines until he’s just lying on the floor probably looking as pathetic as he feels. He finds he doesn’t care. The sun set at around seven-thirty. He lies in the dark and the cold, window’s open, traffic’s buzzing – he hasn’t got the energy to care. He thinks if he stays still long enough he’ll sleep. Or maybe hopes, maybe hope’s the right word.

He last an hour on the floor before his muscles start to protest, to shift without his permission, to start to seize up. He tries to stay longer, tells himself that he deserves this but it hurts and he caves and drags his sorry carcass to his neat and tidy bed. He tucks himself under the duvet and bundles up, foetal position, self-protection. Keep the nightmares at bay. But really, what can nightmares do that life hasn’t thrown at him.

He’s taught his mind not to send him Jim’s face in dreams, somehow he doesn’t think that rule will stand for much now. Jim’s hair, Jim’s eyes, Jim’s smile. Jim’s mind. Sherlock has trouble remembering the voice, knows the accent was Dublin, that its strength and depth changed with the subject or the conversation, in passion, in fear. But he knows these things because he can remember the words to describe them, not the sound he’s describing.

He can remember every event, everything almost every second of the time they had together. How they met while Sherlock was on a dull corporate espionage murder and Jim was helping him with hard drive ghosting. Well, helping is a bit strong, making unhelpful comments on how pretty he is and how they should get drinks some time is more the truth. He remembers how he deduced the tiredness, the casual drug use, the carefully hidden weariness with life. It wasn’t like the man was in a dead-end job, and he certainly had a comfortable work load with good pay scales but he looked bored. Which is probably why he turned to Sherlock. He attracts bored and boring people, they think his life is exciting all the time.

With Jim, however, after the drink that took Sherlock a week to bring himself to organise, he found himself, for once happily, wrong. His estimations of Jim were woefully shallow. The man was clever, brilliant even, and working some side jobs that Sherlock’s sure he should’ve investigated. He wasn’t a criminal, just a passionate man. Sherlock had never really experienced love before - knew the chemicals, the euphoria, the weightlessness, the feeling of falling. He likes to think the falling happened later than it probably did. When Jim tripped a boring but angry bully on his way out of the bar he’d thrown Sherlock a bright smile and (Sherlock hates the phrases people use: ‘oh I saw them and my heart skipped a beat’ or ‘I swear I forgot what breathing was’ but) he had no choice but to smile back, small and private. Jim had just laughed at him and ruffled his hair, shorter then, and told him that for a clever man he was a bit dim. Not many people have ever bothered to tell him that, and very rarely after only having known him for a short amount of time. They usually insult him; they don’t tell him he’s an idiot.

Then again most people don’t walk through London with him and once they reach the door of his flat (Montague St. then) most people - no-one - don’t slide their arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss him.

Sherlock falls asleep to these memories. They’re warm and inviting, now. He supposes this is what giving up feels like. He doesn’t want to have to wake up.

\--

He doesn’t need to glance at the clock to tell that he’s been asleep too long, even though his body clock’s still fucked. He rubs the sleep from the corners of his eyes and surveys the damage he caused last night. Jim’s clothes are strewn from the wardrobe to the foot of the bed and Sherlock remembers the sometimes meticulous folding and the sometimes haphazard lack of care. He tidies them back, hoping that closing the door on them will keep the thoughts at bay.

John’s on the sofa reading today’s Guardian when Sherlock finally decides that yes, he really must interact with at least someone today. The sun glares at him through the windows and he represses the odd instinct to hiss. The case files John got from the station are on the kitchen island and he takes them as he flicks the kettle on.

“Tea?” he asks, not looking over at John.

“Just had lunch, thanks.”

Sherlock frowns. “Alright, then.”

What John says next surprises him. “Is it mental?”

“What?”

“Whatever’s wrong with you, your secret?” Astute. “You haven’t been eating properly and I’d wager that’s the first time you’ve been unconscious for more than what two hours in days. So is it mental?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“Fine, stay quiet. Keep it to yourself for all the good it’ll do you.”

Sherlock flicks the page and hang on – he knows that name.

“I’m going out.”

John’s confused again. “What?” he says. “You’ve just made tea?”

“I have to do something,” Sherlock waves his hands vaguely. “You’ll be alright here won’t you?”

Sherlock doesn’t really wait for an answer already hallway down the stairs and he almost went for his coat before he realised that it’s stashed somewhere outside. On the way he’ll pick it up, though. He gets a cab to Euston and wanders around a bit before going straight to the right alley where the coat is. He can’t remember where he tied the scarf but that doesn’t matter he can buy a new one that wasn’t as expensive as the coat. He pulls it on and revels in the fact that though not warm, it isn’t damp or overly dirty either. He brushes off a little dust and sets off again.

Supposing his target hasn’t moved his base of operations it should still be near the office building from last night. Sherlock considers that taxi fair to Shoe Lane and deems it unnecessary; he pulls his collar up, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks as fast as he can.

The rather large men outside the building push him around a bit before he gives them the only bit of their client code that he didn’t delete. They let him in but one of them sticks by his side as a threatening escort.

In the room there are bags of something, probably money, and two more men with guns and a smaller, thin and balding man sitting behind a desk. The man smiles and expanse of yellowing teeth at him when he enters – Sherlock can’t remember his name.

“Sherlock! Long-time no see.”

The man at Sherlock’s shoulder retreats and moves to stand in the doorway. All possible exits are covered. Sherlock’s beginning to think that this was a mistake. He stands tall anyway and fakes a smile.

“Where is he?” Sherlock pitches it menacing, pitches it cruel.

The smile falls from the other man’s face as he stands slowly and comes out from behind his desk. The suit is expensive but shabby now, perhaps trade has taken a turn for the worst. “Where’s who?”

Sherlock stands stock still, doesn’t attempt to rattle this prey, doesn’t circle. Just breathes. “You know who I am referring to?”

“It’s been two years, Mr Holmes.” Sherlock notices the implications of the formal address even if this pitiful man doesn’t. “If he were still alive, don’t you think he’d have found you?”

It only takes him two strides to grab the drug-dealer by the throat. “Tell me what happened to him!”

The man waves his hands in two short stabs and the three body-guards are on Sherlock within seconds, grabbing him back by the arms and twisting them roughly behind his back, with the leverage they force him to his knees. Even he can’t fight three men twice his size at once, he stills and waits.

“Boys, I think we need to teach Mr Sherlock Holmes a lesson, don’t you?” The man straightens his lapels and sits back down, lounging behind his desk, safe. “Rough him up a bit, but don’t kill him. The boss would be so disappointed if we killed him.”

The final thing Sherlock notices as he’s dragged away is the pure terror that crosses the man’s face at the mention of ‘the boss’, he thinks to yell the question but the doors close and he’s still being dragged. When they stop in the middle of a huge empty room with gaping holes where windows, where glass, should be the men let go of him. Sherlock takes whatever time he can to brace himself.

It starts with a swift kick to the chest that sends him sprawling back, heels of his palms scraping against the dusty, sharp concrete. He thinks they have steel capped boots, he thinks they’ve cracked a rib or two. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to count which ones.

Another man grabs him by the hair and punches him, Sherlock tries to stay silent through the pain that erupts in his jaw, it’s not broken or even dislocated but Christ it hurts. The men seem to remember something, some instruction that Sherlock was not privy to and they leave his face and head be, focussing on kicks to his arms, legs, and chest. He curls into himself to protect his head.

They have their fun for about ten minutes before everything goes black.

\--

Sherlock wakes up to beeping. Hospital then. John’s there, he can’t bring himself to open his eyes but he hears the breathing. Small mutters to nurses every now and again. John _must_ have noticed that Sherlock’s awake but he doesn’t say anything and Sherlock’s grateful after his fashion. He opens his eyes.

“You scared me, Sherlock,” John says with attempts at evenness though his voice sounds choked as it often does when Sherlock stops pretending to be caring, or does something stupid. It’s a mixture of angry and sad and Sherlock understands. “I thought – I thought it was just small and you were okay before but then this.”

Sherlock pushes himself to sitting despite the pain across his chest. “What do you know, John?” he asks between gasps.

John hands him a glass of water and he cradles it. He’s glad of something to hold in his weak, and luckily unharmed, hands.

“Just what Greg told me, that you-“

Sherlock frowns, confused. “Greg?”

“Lestrade, Sherlock, that’s his first name.” John takes a breath to calm himself. “Just that two years ago you lost someone very dear to you and that they looked for a while but had reasonable belief that it was suicide but you wouldn’t accept that-“

“I wouldn’t accept it because it isn’t the truth,” Sherlock snaps. “Jim never took those drugs from the cabinet, they weren’t his! Someone took them to make it look like he had when they took him.”

“And you know that for sure?” John leans forward. “Help me Sherlock, I really am trying to understand.”

“It’s a better fit than what the police kept saying whenever I chased them.” Sherlock looks down at John, voice hard and unrelenting. “I looked for months, John, Mycroft pulled me out of a drug den I’d gone so deep trying to find him.”

John says nothing to this.

“It isn’t a story, John,” he sighs. “And if it is Lestrade only told you his version.” John looks at him, the eyes speak volumes that they voice doesn’t: there’s betrayal there. “You’re disappointed. Why?”

“You could have told me. You could have told me your version before, I could’ve helped.”

“I didn’t want to need help.” It’s true, it always will be true. He never wants to need other people – other people die, they disappear, they have their own lives and always end up letting you down. He likes alone, it serves him better.

John scoffs. “Well that clearly worked didn’t it?”

“I’m not – I haven’t been thinking clearly. It addles me. There’s too much feeling not enough thinking and I can’t stop it John. I can’t control it.”

John laughs darkly and sits back, waving his arms. “I know what depression is Sherlock! I’ve been there, not as deep as you and not for the same reasons but I have felt the loneliness and the despair and the feeling that it won’t end. I could have helped you.”

Sherlock shakes his head, he doesn’t want empathy or sympathy. “I thought I could just turn them off. The feelings. Ignore them. I thought if I didn’t tell you and just kept going I’d get through it better.”

“Better.” John narrows his eyes, working it out. “Better than last year?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

“What happened then?” John’s eyes are kinder now, it’s painful to see but Sherlock so wants to give in, to accept the concern, the care.

He goes for simple, doesn’t dress the words. “Lestrade had to talk me down from the wrong side of the railings on Millennium Bridge.”

John gapes at him. “Christ, Sherlock.”

“See that’s the last thing I wanted, John.” He bows his head. “Pity.”

“Because you pity us, so we can’t pity you.” Indignant, John rails against his assumptions at every turn.

“You shouldn’t see anything in me that require your pity.” He thinks that’s possibly far too honest, that that’s it, really, that’s the gaping maw of his issues. He does not want to be seen to have a heart, but he does, and it’s killing him.

“That’s one of the things people pity, that you think like that.” Clever in surprising places as ever, Dr Watson. “We care, Sherlock. Does Mrs Hudson know?” 

Sherlock grimaces. “God no I’d never get a moments peace!”

“Sherlock, she was the first one they contacted! She’s just outside and terrified you'd been killed.” John stands and goes over to the door.

“Well _obviously_ I haven’t been. If I were dead they’d have called her to the morgue.”

“Stop this, Sherlock. This pretending not to feel. I know you have a heart that’s why you’re here trussed up to machines to keep you stable. You know they told me you were so weak when they brought you in that they thought they might lose you? That you hadn’t been eating properly for at least two weeks. You lied to me.”

Sherlock shrugs and regrets it, wincing at the sharpness in his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“No, Sherlock, you didn’t want anyone to see you weak.”

The only sound save for the beeping of the machines is John’s heavy breaths and Sherlock's ragged ones.

“She thought you’d been killed for god’s sake, Sherlock.” And that’s silly, still, nice to be cared about he supposes. He hasn’t really done much to deserve it.

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“And is that a lie too?”

“No, John, please.” He exhales, a sigh, a huff. He really is sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

"… and Lestrade's been round, dropped of this letter that was sent to the station. Addressed to you."

Sherlock zones back into the hum of John’s voice. “What was that?”

“Yeah. He dropped this off earlier.” John gestures with the file. “Don’t know why people are sending you things via the station. He says they’ve checked it for bombs. It’s clean.”

Sherlock accepts the envelope but doesn’t open it. “Sent to the station?”

“Yes. Were you listening at all?”

“No. Zoned out. Sorry.”

John huffs and goes to stand next to Sherlock’s bed.

“You aren’t sorry. What’s wrong?”

“Nice stationary. Bohemian.” 

John looks closer. “What?”

“Czech.” Obviously.

John holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Ah, right. Okay.”

“She used a fountain pen. A parker duofold – iridium nib.”

“’She’?” Sherlock rolls his eyes and fixes him with a look.

“Obviously.”

“’Obviously’.” John huffs.

He slices the envelope open with a biro he found by the bed. Inside the paper is an iPhone, pink case… ah. Pink case.

“But that’s – that’s the phone, the pink phone.”

Sherlock smiles. “Well no. Made to look like it yes. This one’s brand new.” Sherlock checks it briefly. It doesn’t ring but “there’s a text.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock can’t stop the grin. “It’s a game, John, a puzzle. A cypher. I’ll need a piece of paper.” He suddenly feels light-headed, the phone slips from his hand.

John catches it before it slips off the bed. Sherlock finds himself being nudged lightly to lie back down. “No, Sherlock, what you need right now is rest.”

“Let me come home, John. I don’t like hospitals.” He feels dazed but that thought at least is clear and immediate.

John checks his watch, mutters to himself. “Mycroft should be here in a minute.”

Hang on. “You called Mycroft?” Sherlock whines.

“Of course I bloody did,” John blusters, “he didn’t sound surprised.”

John peers at the text still open on the phone’s large, bright screen. “Sherlock this is gibberish.”

Sherlock’s smile twitches. “For me to solve and look who signed it.”

“Moriarty.”

He sighs, contented. “Yes John. Moriarty.”

 


	2. John (and flashbacks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not really used to Sherlock like this.

ONE WEEK LATER

John makes tea. He makes tea because right now he thinks it’s all he’s good for, because Mrs Hudson isn’t talking to Sherlock and that means she isn’t making them tea. He makes tea because at least the kettle is better than the silence that fell the second Sherlock realised he needed a key to solve Moriarty’s riddle or text or whatever it is (bkrt 140 tnweq akncj hukwgcf qnrh aqgxtnm). Up until then he could swear that they were doing better, the day and a half of trying basic keys he found in previous cases, in the message itself, but after that silence. Sherlock isn’t sulking; even John won’t be so flippant with it. The text was, for its short time, a distraction from the issue at hand, from Sherlock’s issue and John never thought he’d be confronting a Sherlock with demons he got from the disappearance of a boyfriend.

So John makes tea, and gives it to Sherlock, who lies on the sofa, whose cracked ribs and hairline fractures are healing but not healed enough for John to feel comfortable allowing him too far astray. Mycroft keeps on about a case of national importance but John won't let him rile his brother up right now. He won’t rule out any course of action, not after Sherlock went out and ended up in hospital, the man’s clever – he must have known that it would happen. What worries John is that he probably wanted it.

He passes Sherlock the mug, handle out like a peace offering (and all the mugs these past days have been that, please Sherlock, talk to me) and this time Sherlock looks at him when he accepts. “I met him on a case,” he says, quite out of the blue, there’s no run up, no sigh that one associates with a person ready to release the story of their life, just that and then a pause.

“You don’t have to.” John sits anyway, makes himself comfortable, takes a sip of his tea. “Honestly, Sherlock. It must be difficult.”

Sherlock’s mouth twists into an ugly smile, mocking, pained, “Yes. But I should tell you now, I suppose, my side of the story. The truth.”

John manages not to wince and that last, at how sure Sherlock is and how this is generally not a good thing in these cases. But he isn’t that kind of doctor. “And I will listen, Sherlock, of course I will but don’t feel like you have to.”

“I don’t.” Sherlock drinks his tea. “As I say, we met on a case…”

 

THREE YEARS EARLIER

The room is large, but bare, Spartan almost, the clean dark wooden floor extending from the door to the small corner kitchen only stopping where a wall separates the bedroom from the rest of the flat. The furniture is minimal, white on the black floor; the paintings on the wall are dark and striking against the bright. It looks like a show home.

Sherlock is quiet as he approaches; doubtless he is reflected somewhat in the three large glass computer screens he faces. The man in front of them doesn’t address him or acknowledge him and he is forced to make himself known. He coughs.

James Rathe, 30, a web designer (and hacker) of not inconsiderable skill but not as well-known as he should be. Sherlock has his business card in the inside breast pocket of his coat.

As James turns Sherlock resists the urge to smile, that’s a risk he won’t take, and the eyes that meet his are a startling contrast to his own – an empty but cavernous black to his clear blue. Of course he know that black is not a legitimate eye colour, and that if anything James’ eyes are merely a very deep brown, but from this distance they look black, and they’re entrancing him despite himself.

“Who are you?” Irish accent, corresponds to birth certificate and other records – Dublin born.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock tries not to but always ends up slightly judging people on their reactions to his first name, James doesn’t blink, but his confused frown deepens slightly. “I was wondering if I could commission your services. I’m attempting to solve a murder.”

“You police?”

Sherlock’s fake smile falters. “Not exactly,” he allows. “I consult.”

“The police don’t-“

“They do me.”

James quiets at that, seeming somewhat stunned. “How can I help?”

“I need to bypass securities to restore deleted comments.”

“If they’re deleted, they’re gone, I’m not sure I can help there.”

“You and I both know that when something is released into the ether it can always be found even when ‘deleted’,” he raises his gloved hands to mock quotation marks, tone dry. He’s bored with this pretence. “I know that your services are not restricted to web design, Mr Rathe, and that supplementing your legal income you participate in various hacking schemes and the rewards of those probably funded this apartment far better than your legitimate employment.”

James smiles, and the change, instantly is stunning. He transforms from the role of a timid IT guy to an intelligent hacker – not a terribly dangerous criminal, but the spark that Sherlock empathises with and has always been interested in is there. This man corresponds more with the casual drug use Sherlock deduced form his spending patterns “If you know all that, Mr Holmes, I rather think you’d better sit down. And perhaps a first name basis is called for? Please, call me Jim.”

“Jim,” Sherlock tests it, the sound of it, the forming on his tongue, it suits this man, he eventually decides, has a playfulness to it that plain web designer James doesn’t warrant. “It wasn’t hard to work out.”

Jim raises an eyebrow, smile still there but smaller now at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yes,” he says. “Go on then.”

“Three screens is a bit much,” Sherlock starts, “even for a web designer, presumably you spend a decent percentage of your time required to parse several screens worth of code and changing strings of data that you need to process and add to in order to gain what you want from them or to bypass what I assume are generally high security systems.” He pauses to gauge the reaction of his audience, the small smile is still there but the eyes are interested, brighter than they were before (Sherlock makes a note to find out why that physical phenomena occurs). He continues: “of course failing that, if three screens are entirely necessary for your legitimate purposes there’s the poorly hidden notes, also written in some css based code, different meaning, of course, to code, the more antiquated cypher. The notes detail in brief and in summary the presumed security system a client has told you your target is using, including a simple key you’ve found to get past them – that this all appears to have been written in the same sitting suggests that you are very, very good at what you do, that you could deduce the solution to the system at the same time your client was giving you all the details he knew.”

Sherlock stops at the slow spread of Jim’s smile. “Have I gotten something wrong? This is of course just cursory deduction.”

“Not at all,” Jim says, mirroring Sherlock’s speech patterns. “I can see why the police make an exception for you, please, go on if you’ve not finished.”

“I’d need a closer look to come to any definitive conclusions but I’ll add that your eyes are tired,” in truth he’s only just noticed it, “which suggests that you don’t get much sleep. Though you also have some suggestions of at least frequent clubbing activities, I would put forward that you also spend a vast amount of the time the average person is asleep working on other projects. That and the fact that several of the businesses that you have designed websites for have subsequently been hacked, no reasonable link to you, of course.”

Jim laughs, and Sherlock smiles.

“If that’s the most obvious reason for your _deduction_ why leave it to the end? Why not show your easy answer first?”

Sherlock pulls a face, “Most people call it showing off. Most people resent it. People like to think that it's the difficult things that give them away.”

“Aren’t you glad that I’m not _most people_ then?” Jim stands, still smiling and picks up the papers Sherlock had mentioned. “This code needs a key,” he murmurs but Sherlock doesn’t address that.

Jim shreds the notes, so either the job is done or he is sufficiently confident in either memory or skill. “Can I offer you a cup of tea while we discuss this task you need doing?”

“Coffee,” Sherlock says dryly, “would be lovely.”

“Alright, how’d’you take it?”

“Black, two sugars. Thanks.”

Sherlock takes this new angle as an opportunity to look at Jim. The black jeans and crisp shirt as business casual, a product of working predominantly at home but occasionally interviewing clients. The shirt is undone for two buttons at the neck and Sherlock strives not to be distracted by the soft skin he sees there. Jim is entirely at home here, regardless of Sherlock watching him, and perhaps some of the flair in the movements is exaggerated but regardless it’s a far cry from the James that looked at him in confusion just ten minutes ago. Sherlock would love to deduce him further, to find out what makes him tick, his motives, his history, anything and he wants it with a voracity he’s never felt about much of anything before – it’s new and strange and frightening. Jim, of course, in the kitchen pouring boiling hot water into two pristine black mugs, has no idea the turmoil he’s incited in Sherlock’s so usually logical brain. Jim doesn’t know how heady his presence has become to Sherlock, and Sherlock attempts to stifle the growing obsession – he’s had these obsessions before, usually for crimes not people. Maybe, he thinks, Jim’s effect on him is the crime here. He locks these thoughts in some room in his mind palace for further examination when Jim finally turns back to him and passes him his coffee.

“So,” Jim says, between shallow sips of the still steaming drink. “How _can_ I be of assistance in your murder inquiry?”

“The deleted messages,” Sherlock tells him, knowing that both of them are in possession of this information and wondering why Jim is drawing this out. “I need to access them.”

Jim taps his fingernails on the table he’s sat the both of them at before getting up to grab a notepad. “D’you know who made the website?”

Sherlock has the information somewhere – ah, yes – “Gloria-Scott Web Design.”

“Hmm.” Jim notes that down and meets Sherlock’s eyes again. “The url of the site?”

“trevorestates.co.uk.”

“Estate Agent?”

“Landowner,” Sherlock replies. “Buying and selling for commercial, agricultural and private housing purposes.”

“Ah.” Jim shifts in his seat, leaning forward. “Can I ask, is it Mr Trevor who is the deceased of your case?”

“yes.”

“I read in the paper that it was a heart attack, why are the police investigating this.”

Caught in the lie Sherlock weighs up the benefits and detriments of telling Jim. “They aren’t. This is my hunch, and Mr Trevor is the father of an old university friend. I’m right, though.” He feels compelled to add this last, because he is right and he doesn’t want to look the fool here.

Jim puts down the notepad. “So how will you pay me, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock freezes until Jim laughs at his deer-in-the-headlights look.

“How about you take me out for drinks, maybe dinner, and I’ll consider it a settled account?”

Sherlock’s been offered this before by other people, propositioned, looked at like a piece of meat and more so when he shows them how clever he is, he looks down at his hands. “I’m neither good company for drinks or dinner,” he confesses.

“You’re great company now,” Jim tells him, “so drinks, then. We’ll arrange a time when I get you the comments.”

He’s about to reply when Jim continues, “What’s your number? I’ll call you.”

Sherlock hands him a business card on his way to the door. “Thank you Mr Rathe.”

“Jim, Sherlock, always Jim.” Jim’s already at his computer, notepad at his side and Sherlock is confident that he’s hired the best person for the job. He wonders if someday Jim might teach him.

He doesn’t say goodbye, it’s implied.

\--

He gets a call two days later at the lab and Molly doesn’t comment when he smiles at the Irish accent on the other end of the phone.

“Yes?”

“The comments say _‘The most awesome game for you is just about up. Head-manager Hudson, we believe, has been now told to sell all orders for Fly-Games and for preservation of your good commercial life._ ’ And were deleted by the poster the day before Mr Trevor died, they make no sense Sherlock. I hope this helps you.”

Sherlock frowns, and then realises Jim can’t see him. “Hmm,” he says, and then it dawns on him: “Jim it’s a cypher, read every third word starting with the first.”

Jim huffs out a laugh but complies. “The, the game is up. Hudson, Hudson has told all. Fly for your, your life.”

“Trevor, I mean my friend,” Sherlock explains. “Had said that his father had employed a man named Hudson to do some menial tasks in the offices and yet conceded to every request for a pay rise and outrageous benefits, the other employees hated him but Mr Trevor turned a blind eye before Hudson just up and left. A cypher means there’s at least some form of foul play at work that directly or indirectly caused the poor man’s heart to give out at 65.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Sherlock smiles, sheepish, glad that Jim can’t see the blush that flares on his cheeks and answers: “Yes. It means I’m right.”

“I’m starting to believe that you always are,” Jim laughs. “So, those drinks?”

“I don’t know any good places for drinks,” he admits.

“Where do you live?”

He frowns at the non sequitur but answers anyway. “Montague Street.”

Jim hums and then asks if he could get to a certain address for 8 o’clock, which of course he can. “It’s a date then,” Jim says and then promptly hangs up, leaving Sherlock staring at the phone in confusion.

Molly steps back into the room, timid steps, and hands him a coffee. “What was that all about?” she asks, her voice a failing attempt at nonchalance and Sherlock almost pities her.

He decides to be honest, thinks maybe that’ll spare her feelings (he wonders where that humanity comes from) “I think I’ve got a date,” he says.

“Oh,” hurt flashes across her face before she hastily conceals it. “Who is she?”

It’s really none of her business, Sherlock thinks, but if it might stop her incessant fawning he supposes there’s no point in withholding the information.

“ _He,_ ” Sherlock says, watching Molly’s face as her brows furrow and she blinks at him, “is a web-designer. I’m meeting him for drinks; I trust you can keep that to yourself?”

“Y-yes,” she stutters, almost tripping over herself. “Yes of course, how did you meet him – is he nice?”

Sherlock sighs but well, talking about Jim won’t be a hardship. “He helped me on a case. And he’s,” nice is too simple or what Jim is, for what Sherlock sees Jim as. “He’s highly intelligent,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” Molly smiles at him, and she looks lighter, happier. Happy for him, maybe, and that makes him feel warm and all of this is new and strange and he’s on new ground here.

“Yeah,” he says, for lack of anything else.

Molly pulls up a chair next to him and starts helping him with categorising photos of blood clots. “So where are you meeting for drinks?” she asks.

“An Irish bar near Regents Park.”

“He Irish?”

“Yes, Dublin.” He looked him up.

She finishes off the small pile she’s taken and stands, “Well, have a good time,” she says and he’s grateful to her, “and remember when you’re done here lock up and drop the key off at reception.”

Sherlock nods. “Of course.”

\--

The bar is slightly dark, lit from several wall fittings reminiscent of gas lamps and some fairy lights strung above the bar. He sees Jim chatting carelessly with the barman, a drink in his hand and he’s less business than he was when they met, still in a blazer but this one’s softer, and he’s just got a t-shirt and blue jeans on. Sherlock loosens the scarf around his neck and steels himself.

“Sherlock,” Jim grins when he approaches. “You made it here in one piece.”

Sherlock slides into the seat next to him and sits awkwardly. “Yes,” he says. “Did you doubt I would?”

Jim is quiet, takes a sip of his drink. “I had thought I might have frightened you away.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replies, a bit fast, “this is payment.”

Immediately Sherlock knows it was the wrong thing to say as Jim’s face falls, he reels and tries to piece together anything that could save this. He settles with truth. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Jim’s mouth tugs into a small smile. “Nice to see you, too.”

The ensuing silence is awkward but not strained,, and Sherlock hopes he hasn’t messed up too badly.

“I, uhm,” he begins quietly, “I don’t know what to order.”

Jim laughs. “I kind of pinned you as a wine guy, they do wine here.”

Sherlock orders wine, red, and Jim looks at him happily. He relaxes, shrugs the coat from his shoulders and drapes it around the back of the chair and bar stool hybrid this bar seems to favour, smiles back.

“So, what’s the next step for your case?” Jim asks, eyes bright and gaze slipping from meeting Sherlock’s own to looking at his lips.

He understands Jim now, clever Jim is still human, more than Sherlock feels most days, still has human desires like warmth, food, _sex_. “I track down Mr Hudson. Failing that I don’t suppose you could track the person who made the comments?”

Jim laughs. “I’m not sure even I could do that, Sherlock. I’ll have a go, though, call you if I get anything.”

“Call me even if you don’t,” Sherlock blurts and Jim looks at him, amused. “I mean, uhm,” Sherlock can feel himself flushing, “It’s nice to talk to you.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock stares at his hands, takes a sip of the wine and savours the taste on his tongue, he’s coming to the conclusion that he’s far too sober for this conversation. He looks around, starts his old trick of deducing the people near him.

He leans close to Jim, conspiratorial. “Couple at your six o’clock, what d’you think the state of their relationship is?”

Jim grins at him, but plays along, whispers: “Well rings, so they’re either married to each other or having an affair.”

“Which one?”

“Married,” Jim says with an eye-roll. “I suppose you’ve sussed out their life histories,” he continues but there’s no malice in his tone, he’s just amused and content.

Sherlock smiles. “Married, but one of them is having an affair, the man, the marriage is on its last legs and he’s accepted it but she’s clinging on. Look at how she keeps trying to touch him, how there are tears in her eyes but his are dry and he’s unmoved.”

“You think he’s going to ask for a divorce?” Jim asks, drink at his lips, trying not to look at the couple too much.

“Not here,” Sherlock tell him. “When they get back to their home, probably. He’ll try to do it gently, but she won’t take it well – she can see it coming.” Sherlock glances around again. “The man at the other end of the bar, fighting alcoholism, wife and kids at home, has a dog.”

Jim laughs. “Someday I’ll take you to a club and then you’ll have trouble,” he tells Sherlock.

“Oh will I?” Sherlock says, voice lightly mocking as Jim’s eyes widen.

“I mean, if you want to come clubbing,” he rushes to amend. “Oh shit.”

Sherlock smiles and Jim smiles and the night is full of smiles and unsaid things and Sherlock can taste the sentences on the tip of his tongue – the what are we doing’s and the what now’s. They each have another two drinks and then part, Sherlock to solve his case and Jim to his life and work and Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

 

*

John had never really thought Sherlock could display so much humanity in the space of the half an hour he’s been talking, describing everything in close detail even though John can tell that the dialogue at least Sherlock’s is edited and changed to be, he supposes, easier to parse.

“I caught up with Hudson, turned out the old man had been swindling from his previous firm and they’d met when he’d been in trouble and Hudson had held this information over Mr Trevor. The person who’d sent the comments was Mr Trevor’s old co-worker who helped him swindle the money; we left the culpability questions to the lawyers.”

Sherlock hasn’t looked at him since he started, his eyes flicking from the floor to his hands to the window, but he looks up now.

John swallows, throat dry. “Molly knows?” is all he can find to ask at the moment and Sherlock just nods sharply.

“Of course, I knew all these people before you, John, of course they know. Molly met the man, Lestrade too, they both helped me try and find out what had happened to him until they stopped, they gave up but I didn’t.” Sherlock closes his eyes and just breathes deeply for some minutes. “There’s more,” he says.

“You don’t need to,” John tells him. “Honestly, I understand.”

Sherlock shakes his head, “No. I need to talk about it or I won’t ever be able to function properly. It’s like a disease that I can’t shake and if talking about it, about _him_ , will help then I’ll talk.”

“Clear the ghosts from your head,” John mutters and Sherlock looks at him, gaze piercing.

“Something like that,” he allows.

 

*

 

_You busy? xx_

_No. SH_

_Where are you & have you had lunch? xx_

_The lab at St Barts. And no, you offering? SH_

_I’ll pick smth up @ tesco, what do you want? xx_

_Chocolate digestives. SH_

_For lunch? ;)_

_Yes. SH_

_Ok. See you in 10 xx_

 

Jim wanders into the lab at about half one with the Tesco metro bag hanging loosely from one hand as he attempts to text and carry two coffees and the bag at the same time. Sherlock takes the coffee and food wordlessly and sets them down, waiting for Jim to be done.

“Sorry,” Jim says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, “client trying to haggle my price.”

Sherlock ignores the stab of jealousy at Jim having another client and settles for taking the coffee Jim pushes to him and stirring it, asks: “What did you tell him?”

Grinning, Jim hops up to sit on the counter and passes Sherlock his packet of biscuits. “It told him that if he wants to withhold part of my payment he isn’t gonna see the work. Honestly, these business men think that because I don’t work exclusively for a company they can just not pay me.”

“What would they say if they knew I didn’t pay you?” Sherlock says, twining the fingers of his spare hand with Jim’s.

“You,” Jim laughs, nudging his shoulder, “are an exception. These are favours, because we’re friends.”

Sherlock doesn’t let his face fall. “Friends, yes.”

Jim tucks into his salad as Sherlock turns back to the chemicals he’s running through the database, letting go of his hand.

“So what are you working on?”

“Just trying to define which poison the killer used, the case is about ten years old but I sometimes do cold cases when I’m bored. The police never found this sample, it was hidden on the victim’s collar which for some reason they never checked.” Jim just nods absentmindedly and the computer chirps at him. He looks at it. “It’s a plant based poison, the killer probably had or still has a large garden in the north.”

Jim laughs, “you know it’s in the north,” he says, “like it’s obvious.”

“The plant needs a cold climate with lots of rain,” Sherlock says, indignant and Jim laughs at him.

“I was joking, Sherl. You’re brilliant, I know.” Jim jumps down and places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “You free tonight?”

Sherlock’s mind is still hung up on the nickname, he’s never had a nice one before apart from the one his parents insisted on giving him until he told them to stop. “Yes,” he answers. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Jim laughs at him again and squeezes his shoulders lightly. “I’ll see you at the bar at nine, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles up at him. “Yes,” he says and he feels the warmth in his face again. “Of course.”

Jim gathers the bag, his empty salad container and the empty coffee cups. “I’ll see you,” he says from the door and then he’s gone.

\--

Jim already has a drink waiting for him when he shows up at the bar. Sherlock shrugs the coat from his shoulders (and it feels like déjà vu), tells him he’s sorry he’s late.

“No worries,” Jim smiles at him. “Barkeep kept me company,” he looks at his watch, “you’re only ten minutes late it’s not the end of the world.”

They talk of nothings for an hour, and Sherlock finds himself focussing more on Jim’s mouth than the words either of them are saying until Jim downs the last of his drink, grabs Sherlock’s hand and drags him out of the bar.

Sherlock witnesses this like some sort of out of body experience, detached until Jim pushes him against a wall and presses their lips together and Sherlock’ curiosity takes over. His hands snake around Jim’s waist as the kiss deepens, Jim at turns laughing and moaning into his mouth.

He pulls away, embarrassed at himself and Jim gives him a small smile, eyes even darker than usual and his skin flushed, both their breathing harsh in the night air. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock says.

“Don’t be,” Jim murmurs and the hand he’s got at Sherlock’s shoulder pulls him down for another kiss. “You,” Jim manages, starting to pepper small kisses down Sherlock’s jaw and neck, “have _no_ idea how long I’ve been waiting to kiss you.”

Sherlock smiles, moves his hands down slightly to hold Jim’s hips fast. “You and me,” he breathes, “you and me both.” He slides a hand under Jim’s t-shirt and sweeps his fingers over the warm skin and Jim shudders before kissing him deeply on the mouth again.

Jim grabs his hand through his shirt and stills it. “Too fast,” he whispers. “I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow – I have to go.” He tears away and leaves Sherlock confused and alone in the false lights of the orange streetlamps. He hails a cab and tries not to think too much on the way home.

\--

He wakes up cold and still dressed and so, so tired and his head hurts. There’s a message waiting for him on his phone from eleven, he glances to the clock. It’s half twelve. He drags himself up, showers and has a coffee before he even attempts to listen to the message.

Jim’s voice is wary, recorded onto his phone, saying: “ _Hey, I’m sorry I left it like that but it was – well it was going so fast and I needed a little time to think. Please don’t think badly of me, and uh, and call me when you see this message.”_

Sherlock calls him, because Sherlock wants so badly to find out where they were going when they started last night, because Jim doesn’t make him feel like a freak and isn’t cruel to him, because Sherlock was half in love the day they met.

“Sherlock,” Jim says after two rings, his relief audible and Sherlock’s sour mood lightens. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking. I-“

“Are you home?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be five minutes,” Sherlock says and hangs up.

There must be determination clear on his face because nothing holds him back from getting to Jim, he gets a cab instantly, the driver takes the most efficient route and traffic is mercifully low. Sherlock muddles Jim’s words over and over, wondering what he meant and the not being able to just work it out frustrates him and he resolves to _ask_ , not to stay silent and try and guess.

He pays the cabbie quickly and takes the stairs of Jim’s apartment complex in bounds rather than wait for a lift. He knocks, and this time he waits for an answer.

Jim opens the door in a baggy shirt and ripped jeans, clearly neither expecting clients nor planning on getting much work done. He looks a bit taken aback and Sherlock finds that all the restless energy seeps away. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Jim grins. “Look I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be,” Sherlock cuts him off and Jim just looks amused. “This is all new to me,” he admits, “but you are never at fault and gods, Jim, set the speed but don’t go away for too long.”

Jim steps back to let him in and leans against the door when he closes it. “That’s what I was worried about,” he says. “I didn’t want to frighten _you_ away.”

Sherlock laughs, not at Jim but at the absurdity of their situation, their comical misunderstandings. “All you ever do is frighten me,” he says. “You confuse me, I’ve never been like this before, I’ve never wanted to be, never wanted someone so much before. I can’t deduce you,” Jim smiles at that, “I don’t know what you’re going to say before you say it, I don’t know what you’re going to do or how you’re going to react to what I do. You put me off balance but I don’t want you to stop.”

It’s a relief for both of them when Jim pulls him forward and kisses him, when he allows Sherlock to bracket him against the door with a hand by his head and one on his hip. Jim curls his hands around Sherlock’s arms, just something for purchase, and something to hold.

This time Jim let’s Sherlock trace patterns into the skin of his torso, this time Sherlock gasps when Jim bites his lip a little. This time, they still have no idea where they’re going but, this time they take their time to enjoy the ride.

 

*

Sherlock stops, takes a breath, he’s skipped over what happened sometimes, John can infer events from the hasty fade to black. His perception of his friend has changed, obviously, but he understands why Sherlock kept this to himself, clinging to the wreckage of what he had and John’s heart goes out to him.

He gets up to make another pot of tea. "Mycroft keeps calling about some missile plans that have gone missing, says he needs your help," John doesn't think there's any point in hiding it now. 

"Boring," says Sherlock, "And besides I never take Mycroft's cases."

John pours the water. "Yeah, I told him that," he says. "He's pretty insistent though."

From the table Sherlock’s new phone bleeps to signify a new message, he puts it on speaker. John hears the Greenwich pips from the kitchen and Sherlock is quiet again. That’s all there is.

“Five pips,” Sherlock says. He stood up when John wasn’t watching and he’s grabbed his coat. “Lestrade,” he explains when John questions him, “will want to know. There’s a picture too, I’ve seen it before but I can’t quite remember.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you en route,” John supplies, resigned to no longer confining Sherlock to the flat, and Sherlock hums an assent. "Not going to help Mycroft, then?"

"Why?" Sherlock asks, "when someone else is being delightfully interesting?"

\--

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade fumes. “An estate agent’s photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”

Sherlock starts to prattle on about warnings and secret societies and John and Lestrade just sigh when he tells them that something’s going to happen in five hours if they don’t solve whatever’s at the address of the photo.

“I’ve seen this place before,” Sherlock says and John almost shouts at him to talk to them for Christ’s sake.

“Yes, you said, where?”

Sherlock’s already out the door and on his way to the street. John follows and Lestrade grabs his coat.

The cab ride back to Baker Street is an awkward silence and Sherlock practically leaps to the door, unlocking it quickly and leading them to the door that John thinks must lead to the basement flat.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yells and the poor dear come rushing, forgetting her strict do not talk to Sherlock policy that’s been going on since the hospital.

“What on earth?”

“Do you have the key?”

Mrs Hudson eyes him, and then seeming to accept that he’s serious enough, and that Lestrade means there’s a case, she sighs: “I’ll just get it.”

She returns quickly and hands Sherlock the key ring. “You had a look, didn’t you, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson begins, “when you first came to see about your flat.

Sherlock ignores her and just looks at the door. “The door’s been opened recently,” he tells them.

Mrs Hudson shakes her head. “No, can’t be. That’s the only key.

He pulls the padlock away and selects another key.

“I can’t get anyone interested in this flat.” Mrs Hudson rambles. “It’s the damp, I expect. That’s the curse of basements.”

As Sherlock turns the key and pulls the door open, John feels slightly sorry for Mrs Hudson, almost always ignored but not bad enough that he doesn’t follow when Sherlock goes inside.

“I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls ...” Lestrade carefully shuts the door, cutting off whatever tale Mrs Hudson felt was relevant.

The basement flat is down a set of dank stairs, Mrs Hudson wasn’t exaggerating the mould, and Sherlock leads them straight to the room in the photo.

“Shoes,” John says. And the scene is exactly the same save for a pair of old trainers positioned perfectly in the centre and a scrawled word across the bare floor. “and ‘revenge’.” Sherlock moves towards them but John stops him, “Could be trapped,” he says and Sherlock nods.

He still starts moving again, just slower, and John struggles to restrain the sigh.

Thankfully, or not, as it seems the shoes are not triggered at all, the phone rings. Sherlock jumps slightly, as do John and Lestrade, but he answers it, puts it on speaker.

“Hello?” he says, and it’s soft, hesitant.

The person on the end of the phone gasps and starts talking, “H-hello ... sexy.”

John looks over to Lestrade, thankful that he looks just as confused. On the phone the woman sobs.

Sherlock looks around, unsure, asks: “Who’s this?”

The woman continues talking through sobs. “I’ve ... sent you ... two little puzzles ... just to say hi.”

John is having trouble believing that these are her words. Sherlock seems to agree.

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?”

The woman tells them that she’s not crying, she or rather someone else is typing and forcing the woman to read it out. She sobs again and Sherlock looks thoughtful.

“The curtain rises,” he mumbles and John stares at him.

“What?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “Nothing.”

“No,” John says, weary of Sherlock’s evasiveness and just hoping to god that this whole things starts making sense sometime soon because it quite honestly is getting right on his nerves. “What did you mean?”

Sherlock half turns to him and just tells him: “I’ve been expecting this for some time,” which is obviously the most helpful piece of information in this situation.

The woman on the phone continues: “Twelve hours to solve ... my puzzles, Sherlock ... or I’m going to be very naughty.” The phone cuts dead.

“Shoes and revenge,” John says again, as Sherlock pulls gloves on and picks up the trainers. “What kind of puzzle is that?”

Sherlock clicks his tongue impatiently. “Two puzzles, John, two puzzles. The shoes and the word are separate – oh.”

John slips easily into worry at that last. “What is it?”

“I think, I think revenge is the key to the cypher.” Sherlock turns to him, a smile growing on his face.

“The text message cypher?” Lestrade asks and John had almost forgotten he was there, Sherlock certainly had.

“Yes.”

John frowns. “I thought you said it was a five letter key?” he asks.

“It is,” Sherlock says happily. “ _Rache_!”

“From A Study in Pink?” Lestrade looks puzzled, again and John doesn’t blame him.

“Ye-“ Sherlock stops, “ wait you read his blog?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Of course I do, d’you really not know-“ John glares at him and he shuts up. “Nevermind.”

“I’ll take these to the lab and get back to you,” Sherlock tells Lestrade, bypassing him on his way out of the door, leaving John to follow, as usual.

Lestrade throws John a sympathetic look which he appreciates, and they both follow Sherlock out of a crime scene, as usual.

\--

John moves swirls his coffee to cool it down. “So, who d’you suppose it was?” he asks.

Sherlock barely notices, busy running tests. “Hmm?”

“The woman on the phone,” John tries to stay calm. “The crying woman.”

He gets told that she doesn’t matter, just a hostage, no leads.

“For God’s sake,” John rails. “I wasn’t thinking about leads.”

Sherlock looks at him this time, tells him in a voice that’s probably meant to be kind: “You’re not going to be much use to her.”

The scanner, throwing NO MATCH results, is more interesting than John at the moment but he tries anyway.

“Are-are they trying to trace it,” he asks. “Trace the call?”

Sherlock tells him that their boy’s too smart for that.

“Try and remember there’s a woman here who might die.” John would almost be ready to give up on Sherlock’s humanity, were it not for the rawness he saw just this morning

“What for?” Sherlock asks, and John’s fully in his attention now. “This hospital’s full of people dying, Doctor.” John can tell that these words are meant to hurt. “Why don’t you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?”

John looks away in disbelief.”

The computer chirps a result and Sherlock grins, delighted.

Molly shuffles into the lab and John rays to any god that can hear him that Sherlock plays nice.

“Any luck?” she asks.

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock sounds triumphant and John grimaces.

Sherlock waves at the shoes and leans back in his chair, “Go on, then.” He addresses it to both of them.

“You know what I do.” Molly smiles. “Off you go.”

John shakes his head, “no.”

“Go on,” Sherlock prompts.

“I’m not,” John begins, “gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and-“

“An outside eye,” Molly interrupts and Sherlock nods.

“A second opinion. It’s very useful to me,” he says.

John scoffs. “yeah, right.”

“Really,” Sherlock maintains.

“Fine.” He clears his throat, picks up one of the shoes. “I don’t know – they’re just a pair of shoes. Trainers.”

Sherlock and Molly nod. “Good.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock grab a piece of paper and start sketching a grid with the alphabet on top.

“Umm,” John tries to focus on the trainers: “they’re in good nick. I’d say they were pretty new except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while.”

Sherlock seems content that he’s not stupid and lets him continue.

“Uh, they’re very eighties” John tells him, still feeling an idiot. “Probably one of those retro designs.” That last is a guess.

“You’re on sparkling form.” Sherlock informs him, dryly. “What else?”

“Well, they’re quite big, so a man’s?” Molly makes a noise.

Sherlock smiles at her. “But?” he says.

A closer look and John sees the blue smudge on the inside. “But there’s traces of a name inside in felt-tip.” He stops. “Adults don’t write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

“Excellent.” If John didn’t know him better he’d say Sherlock was proud. “What else?”

John puts the shoes down, happy that that’s quite enough humiliation for one day. “That’s it,” he says.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “That’s it?”

He nods. “How did I do?”

“Well, John;” Sherlock patronises him, “really well.” He takes a breath and John is stupid enough to think that’s it before he continues: “I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know.”

Molly pats John on the shoulder. “You did well, John. Not everyone’s as good as smarty-pants here.”

Sherlock holds out a hand sarcastically.

John hands him the trainer with a look of frustration.

“The owner loved these.” Sherlock tells them both. “Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three ... no, four times.”

Leaning against the desk John lets him head fall, of course Sherlock can tell that from a glance, _of course_ , why did he even bother.

Sherlock goes on to explain that they boy who owned them had eczema and that the shoes are British made and twenty year old.

John stands up straight. “Twenty years?”

“They’re not retro,” Sherlock explains. “They’re original.” And that explains the look he’d gotten when he said they were new.

Sherlock types quickly on his phone and lifts the screen to John. “Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine.”

“But there’s still mud on them.” John argues. “They look new.”

“Someone’s kept them that way,” Sherlock shrugs. “Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it’s from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.”

John asks the obvious question and Molly tells him that pollen’s a good locator before Sherlock has a chance to mock him.

“South of the river, too,” Sherlock continues from his and Molly’s joint explanation. “So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

John waits, and then when it’s clear nothing is forthcoming asks: “So what happened to him?”

Sherlock’s smile is small but still there and still inappropriate. “Something bad.” He just looks at John. “He loved those shoes, remember. He’d never leave them filthy. Wouldn’t leave them go unless he had to. So: a child with big feet gets –“

He trails away before saying, softly, “oh.”

John can’t see what he’s looking at. “What?” he asks. “Sherlock, what is it?”

Sherlock just says a name, Carl Powers.

“Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock repeats, eyes still vague. “John.”

John nudges him. “What is it?”

“It’s where I began,” Sherlock tells him, excited. “He died on a school swimming trip, the police were convinced it was just a natural fit but I wasn’t – his shoes were missing and he’d otherwise been entirely healthy. No one believed me.”

“Sherlock,” John starts, “the clock _is_ ticking. What do you have to do?”

“I have to find out how he died.”

\--

Sherlock explains a little more about Carl Powers and then shuts himself off in the kitchen as John keeps a mindful eye on the time. The hours keep ticking by and Sherlock just shifts side of the counter, occasionally asking for tea and not much else. John goes shopping, tries not to think about the woman on the end of the phone.

He buys milk, groceries, manages not to have a row with the self service machine.

When he gets back Sherlock yells at him. Says Carl Powers was poisoned and John thanks god that he’s solved it with three hours to spare.

“Botulinum toxin,” Sherlock explains, “so easy to introduce into poor Carl’s medication before the competition.”

“Why tack the shoes?” John asks, putting the shopping in the fridge and cupboards.

“A memento, probably.” Sherlock grins and grabs him laptop, uploading the solved case onto his website, John supposes.

“What about the key to your cypher?”

“It was rache, the message was an address. I’ll check it out later.” Sherlock pushes the laptop to show John the post in the forum: FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989) Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

“So the killer will call off whatever he had planned for that woman, now?” John questions just as Sherlock’s phone rings.

“Well done, you,” the same woman says, still terrified and sobbing. “Come and get me.”

To his immense relief Sherlock just asks where she is.

\--

Lestrade doesn’t ask any more of them tonight, just tells they recovered the woman (who was strapped into a vest full of explosives) and that they should come to see him in the morning.

“So where’s the address?” John asks, nibbling his bacon sandwich, breakfast at dinner seems the least weird thing to happen today.

“Brixton,” Sherlock mumbles, messing absentmindedly with the strings of his violin. “We’ll go tomorrow. It’s too late now.”

John finishes his dinner and flicks the telly on. “Any idea what’ll be there?”

“Probably another case, hopefully something interesting.”

“You’re having fun with this,” John says, slightly disgusted at Sherlock’s glee at people being put in life threatening situations, but then again this is that man who said he loved certain crimes.

Sherlock leaves him alone an hour later, goes to his room and John doesn’t know how to deal with Sherlock. Doesn’t know where to stand.

\--

John wakes up slowly, the absence of any yelling strange but welcome until he realises that Sherlock is almost certainly waiting for him in the lounge. It’s ten o’clock, they’ll want to check out the Brixton address soon. John dresses quickly and walks straight to the kitchen.

Sure enough, Sherlock sits in what’s come to be ‘his chair’ and plays again with the strings of the violin.

“Morning,” John says. “Tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

John rolls his eyes but sets about making them both coffee, he can’t be bothered tto make two different drinks. “Shouldn’t we bring Lestrade along?”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, “he wasn’t any help in 221c.”

John can’t argue with that. “We don’t know what we’ll find in Brixton, though.”

 “There were five pips, John,” Sherlock says on a sigh and John can tell that today’s going to be one pf those days where Sherlock is done with the stupidity of ordinary humans. “Presumably that signifies the number of times we are going to be contacted by this bomber, the murderer whoever he is. It’s probably going to be another puzzle.”

John thinks he hears Sherlock mutter, something about at least someone’s being interesting, but elects to ignore that. “Alright,” he gives up. “When d’you want to leave?”

Sherlock drinks his coffee. “Now.”

Only half way through his own coffee John abandons it and grabs his coat. “Got enough for the taxi there and back?”

“Of course,” is all he gets before Sherlock is off, striding downstairs and John waves to Mrs Hudson as he shuts the door.

Sherlock throws his arm out to hail a cab and John attempts to bring up feelings, even though he knows it won’t go down well, and won’t be welcome – he feels it’s important – no matter how well Sherlock appears to be doing the man can’t just recover from self-destructive depression in the space a conversation and a hospital stay.

 He goes for the jugular. “How are you?”

Sherlock eyes him, “fine,” he says warily, “why?”

John shrugs, “Just wondering, after last week-“

“You mean am I about to go and get myself beaten up again?” Sherlock looks out of the window. “No,” he says, dry. “I have a case now, multiple cases, that’s enough to distract me.”

“But distraction isn’t the best way, Sherlock, it’s treating the symptoms.”

“What would you suggest, Doctor?” Sherlock uses the title with little respect. “That I continue to think of him, would that help? That I let thoughts of him distract me from my work, would that be better than if I allowed the opposite?”

John sighs. “I just meant – forget it. Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

The rest of the twenty minute journey is spent, as most of their journeys are now, in silence.

\--

Flat 140 of Tower Block, they find, is on the seventh floor of the building. It’s not a bad area, John thinks, just across from a nice park and, well, not covered in the graffiti that plagues rather a lot of London.

He keeps an eye on Sherlock, who seems fine enough, albeit keyed up with somewhat nervous energy, his movements more staccato than they usually are even in excitement. John is starting to believe he may have missed something, or that Sherlock has made a leap he hasn’t told him about. The lack of a key to the cypher did seem to set him back rather more than John had thought it might.

Sherlock is quiet as he pushes the seven button on the lift, and thankfully there’s no awful elevator music to suffer through as they go up. It’s a fast lift, he thinks.

“I don’t know what we’ll find,” Sherlock says, quietly, as they look for the door of 140. “But if there’s danger I want you to get out and call Lestrade.”

John resists the urge to grab Sherlock and tell him that they should have called the Yard anyway. In fact they should be at the Yard now instead of chasing Sherlock’s cypher. “Is there likely to be?” he asks. “Earlier you were certain that all we’d have is another piece of evidence and then a phone call.”

“Couldn’t be sure,” says Sherlock, with a shrug.

Doesn’t stop him from testing the door, not knocking, just testing the handle – it opens, he slides in, pressing a finger to his lips and John rolls his eyes, he doesn’t need to be told when silence is important. He thinks they’ve rather skipped dangerous situation lessons.

The flat is clean, but untidy, clothing and books strewn everywhere, junk on most surfaces, technology dismantled and not put back together again. The living room is empty and Sherlock, still making every movement as quiet as he can, move through to the door that probably leads to the bedroom. Whoever owns the flat, John supposes, might still be sleeping – he follows at a distance to make sure everything’s okay.

Sherlock pushes the door lightly and John hears his gasp, watches as his friend leans against the doorframe for support. John abandons his lookout position and rushes to Sherlock’s side as he stumbles forward on unsteady legs.

He doesn’t understand it until he sees the man asleep in the bed, pale, dark haired, peaceful.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

“Jim.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this continues to be a bugger to write. please, please bear with any plot holes and please tell me if anyone is too out of character, i'm not BBC Sherlock's biggest fan and have attempted to alter some characterisation to be a happy medium between elementary and sherlock.  
> oh and  
> a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z  
> r a c h e b d f g i j k l m n o p q s t u v w x y z
> 
> bkrt 140 tnweq akncj hukwgcf qnrh aqgxtnm  
> flat 140 tower block dulwich road brixton


	3. Sherlock and another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jim?” Sherlock tests the name, hoping. Jim looks up and Sherlock smiles, small, holds out his hand.
> 
> Jim takes it.

He studies the room, the scattered belongings, the objective lack of anything that truly suggests _home_ ; the place has the comfort of a hotel room but somewhat more bare. He decides he needs to move, he’s not sure he can. He doesn’t think he should be able to move freely in a building with Moriarty on the deed.

Miracles happen. His unsteady legs allow him to walk forward just enough to collapse beside the bed. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t know what Jim’s been through, if he’d recognise him (hopes he will), he just sits until John’s rustles become more impatient and he turns, says “I don’t know what I should do,” and it feels like it’s torn out of him. Jim stirs, Sherlock freezes.

John hums, says, “what d’you think’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says.

“Wake him up,” John tells him, “gently.”

Sherlock complies, the most fleeting of touches to Jim’s shoulder, it seems wrong, like an intrusion – he doesn’t want to break anything, he doesn’t like walking on eggshells. He says Jim’s name, quietly at first then rising, he hopes this Jim is still Jim.

Jim’s eyes open, he pushes Sherlock, lightly, really, but Sherlock falls and Jim doesn’t make a sound but crashes as far away as he can. His eyes are wide and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, he looks at John.

“Hey,” John says, and it’s his doctor voice, calming, “hey,” he moves towards Jim and Jim frowns. “It’s alright, you’re safe, we aren’t going to hurt you.”

Sherlock pulls himself upright and Jim stares at him, recognition flickering on and off across his face. Slowly, he moves to stand just in front of John, and Jim, thank God, moves towards him.

The silence is unnerving. “Can you speak, Jim?”

Jim shakes his head, eyes cast to the floor.

“Jim?” Sherlock tests it, hoping. Jim looks up and Sherlock smiles, small, holds out his hand.

Jim takes it.

They lead him out of the flat.

John murmurs to him, tells him that Jim’s level of focus suggests he’s drugged and Sherlock doesn't tell him he knows already, just holds Jim’s hand where he won’t let go and nods when John continues that they should get Jim to a hospital.

Jim shivers in his t shirt and thin trousers and Sherlock gives him his coat, watches out of the corner of his eye as John looks around like he doesn't know where he can look. Sherlock appreciates how private this must look, when Jim curls into him, just their quiet breathing. He still doesn't know what to do.

-

The hospital staff tell them that the drugs will leave Jim’s system in a couple of days and that he should stay there for observation, they ask if Sherlock would like to leave and be contacted when Jim’s clearer. Jim tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squeezes back but lets go, he tells Jim he’ll be back soon, that he’s going to find whoever did this to him, he whispers thanks as he kisses Jim and leaves.

-

“Where are we going to start?” John asks, already waiting by a taxi, determined. Sherlock’s grateful.

“Back to that apartment,” says Sherlock. “Anything that tells us who was keeping Jim drugged might lead us to Moriarty.”

John sighs, this time the exasperation isn't directed at him, says: “Don’t blame yourself.”

Sherlock looks at him through narrowed eyes, his head’s hurting and nothing’s clear, he laughs, bitter. “It’s my fault, John, of course I’m going to blame myself.”

Thankfully, John doesn't try and change his mind.

-

The flat yields nothing but the sad evidence of a captive life, the neighbours say the boy in flat 140 never left it to their knowledge, that he got a visitor with shopping bags once a week, sometimes the days changed, they don’t know why (Sherlock does know why, to confuse Jim and make his dependant on his captor) they ask if he’s alright. Sherlock doesn’t mention that their landlord is a monster, they seem alright.

-

Mycroft calls, in the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, prattles on about the missing missile plans he’s been dying for Sherlock to help with. Sherlock hangs up.

Mycroft calls John, who explains the situation in brief staccato sentences, ignoring Sherlock’s pointed looks.

“Yes.”

“He’s fine, _both_ of them are fine, they have Jim at the hospital. No we’re not there now Mycroft, I know you can hear the car moving.”

“Just leave it until we know Jim’s alright, yeah?”

John hangs up too, Sherlock doesn’t smile.

-

“You alright dear?” Mrs Hudson greets them, noticing in that sharp way she has that Sherlock is more wired than usual. “Need a cup of tea.”

“We found Jim,” Sherlock breathes, not looking at her, trying to stay upright as the adrenaline wears off. “He was being kept in Brixton, drugged, not allowed to leave.”

Sherlock looks at the wall over her shoulder, confesses, “It’s my fault.”

“No it’s not,” John scolds him, but Mrs Hudson is cleverer in this moment, draw him into her kitchen, sits him down and makes a cup of tea for him – he hears John go upstairs.

“Why do you think it’s your fault, Sherlock?” she asks, sat across from him, blowing cool air over her mug.

Sherlock keeps his eyes on the ghastly table cloth.

“Moriarty owns the building he was in. Moriarty took him.”

“To get at you?”

“I must’ve,” Sherlock makes a noise that sounds foreign to his own ears, nearly a growl, a snarl. “I must’ve gotten too close to one of his plots.”

Mrs Hudson leans back, brow furrowed. “Plots?” she prompts.

“Yes,” says Sherlock, impatient because isn’t it _obvious_? “I’ve thought for some while that Moriarty is a sponsor of sorts to criminals but he also plans crimes, like a consultant.” He pauses, _of course!_ “Like me.”

“Not at all like you, dear. You solve crimes.”

Sherlock barks a laugh. “Ask Sergeant Donovan, she’ll tell you it’s only a matter of time until I put the body there myself, that’s what she says, I’ve heard it.”

Mrs Hudson places her hand over his on the table, tries to meet his eyes, he lets him.

“She’s got you wrong then,” she says and Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong she is, how wrong she’ll turn out to be, inevitably, on the balance of all probabilities.

“But Sherlock,” she continues, “he’s alive, you also said he was and he is!”

She’s trying to make him focus on the positives but he can’t feel them through the shock, it’s dulled, everything’s dulled and it’s not right and he doesn’t understand it and he’s getting really angry at not knowing where to stand now.

Jim’s back. He tries to focus on that, because that’s _good_ , but Jim’s in danger, still, he has to be – Moriarty doesn’t seem the type to let something go completely.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson,” says Sherlock, after a time in his own head, “I should go.”

She catches his hand as he slips it from under hers. “Find the bastard, Sherlock.”

He nods. That he can do.

-

He gets the call on the landing just outside the lounge – the number’s blocked, he assumes it’ll still be Moriarty.

“Well done you,” the voice this time is without any signs of duress, just a calm, boring male voice so close to RP as to not matter. “As a result of this development I’ve decided to abandon our little game,” the man sounds amused, “give you some time with my gift.”

Sherlock stands still, tries not to snarl. “Giving back something you’ve stolen isn’t generally a gift,” he says. “If you’re Moriarty, why stop the game now?”

There’s a breath. “If?”

“You’re just a voice,” he says, carefully dismissive. “Moriarty’s used hostages before or what’s to say you’re not just an employee?”

“Of course,” ‘Moriarty’ laughs. “There is nothing to say that I am not. I have abandoned our game because I have seen you dance, and, now that you have James Rathe back in your possession I doubt your mind will be truly focussed on my games. My apologies.”

“No, you’re not sorry. And you aren’t going to leave me alone.”

“No, I’m not.” There’s a pause, Sherlock counts, ten seconds. “Alright then, Sherlock, riddle me this - one last puzzle – what am I up to?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes despite himself. “Any manner of things,” he says and asks before he can stop himself: “Was Carl Powers your first?”

“Now, now,” the voice chides. “Sherlock, don’t _distract_ yourself.”

The line goes dead, the typical beeps telling him that’s all he’s going to get. Just a task and an inference – that stress on ‘distract’ can’t have been an accident, he just can’t think what he’s been distracting himself from.

-

“So,” says John, sat in his chair, the daily paper folded carelessly over one knee. “Who was on the phone?”

Sherlock would grin if it weren’t for the ache in his head and his chest (this last is psychosomatic, he _knows_ ).

“Moriarty,” he says. “You can breathe easier, Doctor, he’s called off whatever hostages the other four pips were going to rope in. The crimes will still take place though, can’t help that.”

John doesn’t talk, blessedly, just looks at him – lets _him_ talk and talk he does.

“He said that I needed to work out ‘what he’s up to’ as a final puzzle. Took care to tell me not to distract myself.” Sherlock whirls on John. “What have I been distracting myself from?”

“Food?” John supplies unhelpfully adding: “don’t think I hadn’t noticed. And you haven’t slept in days again.”

Sherlock gapes at him. “I can’t sleep _now_. You can’t expect me to, not really?”

John smiles, not happily, sadly, small. “No, I suppose not. Shall I call Lestrade, tell him that we aren’t expecting anymore hostages.” He takes a breath to say something more, doesn’t.

“You can,” Sherlock tells him, “tell him about Jim, I mean. Don’t tell him everything, he doesn’t need to know and tell him I don’t want to talk about it with him so not to call ‘round or anything.” Sherlock trails off. “Thanks.”

John nods and leaves him alone.

-

It’s morning and when did that happen? John’s been speaking to him, he catches the tail end of the sentence. Asks him to repeat it.

“Have you given any thought to where he’ll stay after they release him?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Here. Obviously.”

John sighs. “Sherlock, it’s a two bedroom flat.”

“I’ll take the sofa,” he says, “I do anyway most of the time.”

John doesn’t voice what they both know he’s thinking, that that isn’t a permanent solution, and what if Jim and Sherlock are never Jim and Sherlock again, what if leaving this time of his over volition is the straw that break Sherlock – a lot of what ifs and neither of them acknowledge them, sat in a flat Jim has never known, in a life that Jim has never been a part of (just at the back of Sherlock’s mind).

“Mycroft’s missile plans,” he says. “I’ve been ignoring them mostly but well, it’s interesting. They haven’t left the country-“

“How’d you know?”

“Shockingly, we do still have a secret service. Mycroft would have heard.” Sherlock stands. “No,” he says. “They’re still here, but who-?”

Of course. He knows John’s been trying to solve the case himself, mindful of Mycroft’s insistence, that’s where John had been going during his, well, his being out of action. “John,” he says. “There wasn’t enough blood on the lines, was there?”

John narrows his eyes. “No.”

Sherlock hums. “Come on,” he grabs his coat. “The girlfriend has a brother right?”

“Fiancée and yeah,” John looks confused but follows him. “Why?”

“Go out drinking, spill that something important is in your possession,” Sherlock opens the door, “people inevitably think of the opportunities – money, for example. It wouldn’t have been the fiancée, probably didn’t go out drinking but the brother-“

“He was at his _engagement_ party, Sherlock, for Christ’s sake.” John gives him the look, the look that questions his humanity but Sherlock doesn’t flinch and John gives up, continues: “You think he killed West for the plans?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Makes sense, don’t you think?”

John eyes the open door of the taxi, “and we’re going?”

“Maybe the brother still has them.”

-

They break in. John’s appalled. Sherlock just picks the lock and leads them up the stairs where a small landing leads them to a main room – the window overlooks railway tracks. He was right.

He tells John as much. “He stole the memory stick,” he says over his shoulder, the edge of the windowsill has trace evidence of blood – John looks. “Killed his prospective brother-in-law.

“Then why’d he do it?” John, once again, seeks the good in people, stunned that someone could kill so easily.

He straightens up and turns. Hears the click of someone unlocking the front door, says, “Let’s ask him.”

John brought the gun, Sherlock notices, gladly, and he walks out onto the landing – Sherlock hears him warn the brother, twice, and then a sigh.

They sit him on the sofa, and, predictably, his first words are: “It wasn’t meant to…” Sherlock rolls his eyes, and the man continues: “God,” he asks, “What’s Lucy going to say?” and frankly Sherlock doesn’t care – if this is the distraction he _needs_ those plans to find Moriarty.

John clears his throat and Sherlock stops himself from speaking first.

“Why did you kill him?” Obvious question.

Obvious answer, “It was an accident.”

Sherlock laughs, says, “Oh, but stealing the plans for missile defence, that wasn’t an accident,” he smirks down at the shaking murderer, “was it?”

The man looks down, dejected, hangs his head as he mutters about dealing drugs and Sherlock fights to stay in the moment – lets him talk about getting in deep, about owing people and Sherlock thinks of the man he loves, stuck in a hospital, of how much he owes him. He shakes his head to clear it.

“What happened?” John asks, softly and Sherlock just looks at the sorry scene. A man in bike gear interrogated by an ex-army doctor with a recurring psychosomatic limp, while an ex-druggie shell of a man watches, it’s pathetic.

“I was going to call an ambulance, but it was too late.” That isn’t an answer. They fought, the victim sustained fatal wounds, most likely from a fall from the landing to the stair well.

“I pushed him down the stairs, I just didn’t have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in here, and I just sat in the dark, thinking.” As murderers often do, Sherlock muses.

“And then,” he smirks, “a neat little idea popped into your head. Why not, well, why not throw him on a train? That’ll get him away and you might get away with it.” He sighs. “D’you still have them? The plans?”

The man nods.

“Go fetch them for me will you,” he signals John to watch him as he walks to another room.

With the memory stick safe in hand Sherlock allows John to call Lestrade, not Mycroft – says he’ll give them back himself. John leaves with the police to explain the story; Sherlock goes back to the hospital.

-

Jim’s sleeping, not hooked up to too many machines, they tell him that the drugs are leaving his system, that he’s getting better inch by inch. They warn him that Jim was underfed and weak, and that that’ll take longer – he hasn’t spoken, yet.

Sherlock sits at his bedside, holding his hand loosely and throwing and catching the memory stick in the other hand.

He murmurs, to Jim or to himself, asks whether the stick will lure Moriarty out, whether he can catch him and pay him back the torture tenfold. He wonders if Moriarty has anyone he loves, if he is even capable of being hurt. He wonders what kind of monster he’s dealing with, somewhere deep in his mind he tells himself to look in a mirror.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “You didn’t deserve this.” He thinks he hears Jim sigh in his sleep.

He lets Jim’s hand go, kisses a silent promise into the skin of his palm.

He’s going to get the bastard.

-

Back at home John types, doubtless trying to put some case onto his blog, he doubts it’s the plans and he’s asked John to keep Jim’s existence as quiet as possible so it’s probably the shoes, then, minus the codes and the cypher. John’s blog must make for a boring read these days, he thinks, most of it gaping holes.

John finishes off, the tapping (one-fingered typing, it would be hysterical if it weren’t so sad) draws to a close. “I won’t be in for tea,” he tells him.

“What, why not?”

“I’m going to Sarah’s.” John says, like it’s obvious, like Sherlock should know who Sarah is…

“Who’s Sarah?”

“My,” John begins, the righteous anger of the more obviously human shining again from every pore, but he deflates: “you know what doesn’t matter, just a friend that I’ve told you about but you clearly weren’t listening. I suppose you have a good enough reason.”

Sherlock supposes he has, lets John tell him they need milk, offers to get some, relishes the shocked tone as John adds to the list. When he’s finally gone, Sherlock pulls his laptop onto his knees and opens his website – types into the forum section.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect._

He thinks of who he is dealing with, the shadowy entity and all he knows about him or her or what – adds

 _The Pool. Midnight._ The pool where Carl Powers met his tragic end.

Now it’s just a case of waiting.

-

Breaking out of things is sometimes more difficult than breaking in, he’s found, but hospitals? A walk in the park, usually. At midnight? Slightly more difficult.

And, technically, it’s half eleven.

There’s a neatly laid out suit on an empty bed in a room they’d discussed earlier, it calls to him – it’s Westwood, he’s very pleased. Putting it on feels like slipping into the most comfortable skin he has, much better than any other disguise. He smiles to himself, Sherlock Holmes’ silly little forum post, the hope and energy behind every word, even dragging him out to the pool where little Carl died – it’s all too funny. Hard to resist.

He calls a sniper who owes him one, tells him exactly where to go and exactly what to do, tells him where he planted the laser-pointer in his apartment, for good measure, keep the underlings on their toes.

When it comes to it, make it seem like you do have a gun, he tells him, don’t fuck up.

He nicks a car for fun, drives off into the smog veiled moonlight.

-

Sherlock’s already talking when he gets there, when he hides behind a door just waiting for the right moment.

He lets the man talk and _talk_ and doesn’t he ever shut up? God does he go on.

“a little getting-to-know-you present.” He catches. “Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? Your little puzzles; making me dance, giving him back – all to distract me from _this_.”

Jim peers through the window of the door, sure enough, Sherlock brandishes the memory stick like a weapon (an actual weapon lies in his pocket), like a triumph and it would be sweet if it weren’t so _wrong_ – he supposes he did play all the parts well. He just hoped Sherlock Holmes would work it out faster.

He steps forward, pushes the door open, it echoes loud in the cavernous room, and there’s a metaphor there somewhere, isn’t there?

Sherlock turns on his heel, almost drops his _prize_ , gasps. Jim thinks his heart probably skips a beat and he’d be lying if he said his own didn’t.

Because this is it, isn’t it? This is the grand reveal, bit rushed, haphazard, not how he’d ideally have wanted it but you can’t have everything and at least there’s some poetry here. There is that.

“This is a turn-up isn’t it, Sherlock?” he says, the words he may have spoken in a hostages ear, maybe John’s but that idea was chucked out quickly, no, this is far too intimate for that.

Sherlock just breathes his name, and in that moment he’s glad he didn’t use a fake. He hides the shiver it sends down his spine pretty well, he thinks.

“Oh come on you don’t think I’m a hostage do you? Please, that would be a flaw in any story – give something back just to take it away again. No, please, that’s boring. But make it so that the person who disappeared actually disappeared himself? Well, you got to admit that’s sexier.”

And Sherlock _has_ to (right?), but then again, Sherlock never did have a knack for the poetry of things, for all that he always wanted the most convoluted explanation to be the real one. Probably a coping mechanism, one to get around the terrifically dull mental processes of the masses. He’s not sure which one of them’s worked out the best way – hasn’t bothered to analyse the success of the puzzle v game approach. Maybe he’ll do that, sometime.

“Why?” Bless him, he sounds broken. Jim keeps his distance, moves forward slowly. Sherlock doesn’t move, barely breathes, just watches with darting eyes.

“I wanted to get to know you, Sherlock,” he confesses. “On my terms. So I tricked you into thinking I was just one of those boring normal people, and you, well, I wasn’t expecting you to be quite so _you.”_

If there’s one thing he wants from this, at the end of the day, it’s honesty. Start as you mean to go on. Set the example.

Sherlock’s shoulders fall, he seems to almost collapse on himself but still stay upright – like a puppet with strong enough legs to stand but the strings on the arms have been cut. “You weren’t expecting that I’d care for you,” he says, still on a whisper.

“Care for?” Jim sings. “Oh Sherlock, can’t you say it? You loved me?”

He knows he did, know Sherlock Holmes fell hard and fast, he watched it with interest, trying to be detached at first but well, he’s so pretty – such a pretty mind, sharp enough to keep up and Jim was pretending to be dull, for God’s sakes. It had all happened so fast.

“Was it all a lie?” Sherlock’s voice cracks, Jim takes another step forward and they’re much closer now, arm’s length.

“Well, no, the attraction was real, the sex that was real.” And it was, oh god it was. “I was just pretending to be someone else. Jim Moriarty,” it’s like a weight off his chest to say it out loud. “Hi.”

“You’ve been everywhere, all this time,” Sherlock drags a hand through his hair, Jim tries not to follow the movement, does anyway – he doesn’t think it’s noticed. “Following me, not literally but - the cabbie, the dying cabbie, you backed him,” he takes a breath, “you what you plan these things?”

Jim grins, throws out his arms, watches Sherlock flinch. “I’m a specialist,” he says. “Like you, only I plan crimes instead of solving them.”

“Consulting criminal…”

“Only one in the world.” He laughs, just a little smug. “Don’t we make a darling pair?”

Sherlock doesn’t let him have his fun for long. “Why do it?” he asks. “Why seduce me and then lead me to believe you were dead?”

“Sherlock!” Jim holds a hand to his heart, forms an oh of surprise. “I thought you never believed it.”

His little detective breaks his ground, starts moving, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Becomes difficult to argue the logic against you when your own is drying up.” Jim’s heart doesn’t break, it just stutters. “It seemed right. I thought that because I didn’t want to believe it I wasn’t, and that that was illogical and dangerous and then I realised that maybe that was the problem.” He meets Jim’s eyes, and the pain there is almost astonishing, Jim nearly smiles. “I nearly died because of you.”

Shrugging, he places his hands in his pockets, submissive (just what Sherlock likes), says, “You came to close to my plans while we were together, first I thought I’d just kill you but then, that would be a waste.

“And now,” says Sherlock, “now you will kill me?”

Jim frowns, almost a wince. “Don’t be boring, Sherlock, I’ll kill you anyway, someday, don’t want to rush it though.” Smiles again, now, fast enough to keep Sherlock unsure. “Not when you’re so much fun.”

“Where do we stand then?” Is all he gets, and isn’t that just typical – go through huge effort to craft a story for someone and all they want to know is what happens now.

“Connie Prince,” he begins, listing is easy, a simple technique, a terror tactic well practiced and honed. “Selling ridiculously expensive fake paintings. Assassinations. A glimpse of what I’ve got going on. Now, Sherlock, I want you to leave me alone.”

“Or what,” Sherlock says, bristling now like he always did when challenged and it’s almost comforting that nothing ever changes. “You’ve just said you won’t kill me, so why should I stop?” His voice softens. “You’re a consulting criminal. Brilliant.

Jim wants to hug him, or kill him, right there and then, settles for neither. “D’you know what happens, Sherlock,” he says, quiet, harsh. “I’ll burn you. I will _burn_ the heart out of you.” And he means it, wishes he didn’t have to.

What Sherlock says next is unexpected. A raw display of emotion he hadn’t thought likely where many would think it possible. Sherlock tells him, “You already have.”

But “No,” Jim argues, “Sherlock, it’s healing.” Close enough to touch now, easily. “We both know, that for all your bravado, that isn’t quite true. “

Sherlock grins, a shaky, scared but relentless thing, pulls the gun. “I’ll burn you,” he says, “I think that’s fair.”

Jim laughs, says, deadly serious: “Don’t try and mimic me, don’t think like that.” Lighter now, breathless, shocked: “Where did you internalise me?”

Typically, he doesn’t get an answer. “Take it.” Sherlock waves the memory stick.

He obliges, kisses it, throws it into the water.

“I could have got that anywhere,” he says and it’s true and that’s what he thinks Sherlock doesn’t quite grasp.

“Then why come here? If not for that?”

This is torturous, he’s loving it. “Oh, Sherlock, for you. It’s always been you. You’re the greatest game I’ve ever played.”

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock says. “You knew about me?”

“When you started making noise, yes. You interested me, Sherlock. Here’s a boy, little me thought, who can keep up. And that’s what you’ve been doing, running behind me, _keeping up._ ”

“I’ll stop you, I’ll always stop you.”

“No you won’t,” he sings it, thinks maybe he should leave now, let Sherlock mull this over, come crashing back later on but something about Sherlock stops him, the slump in his body language, the dejectedness in his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

Jim shrugs, a hand perilously close to touching Sherlock’s shoulder, says, “Then decide to hate me, you can do that, did you know, make a judgement and force yourself to believe it? I’ve seen people do it, often before they ask me to plan murders. Pays well.”

Sherlock says nothing, doesn’t look at him. Jim tries a different tack.

“Sit with me.” He sits by the pool’s edge, careful of the suit, not close enough to be in danger of ruining it. Pats the floor beside him. “Sherlock,” he repeats, “sit with me.”

“John’ll probably work out where I am” Sherlock says, sitting regardless and looking at the water, “and people will have realised you aren’t in the hospital we should-“

“We?” Jim laughs, it’s so Sherlock, the presumption. “So you’re coming with me.”

“Obviously. I’ve only just found you again I’m not going to let you disappear again.”

“Going to catch me as a criminal or just come with me?” Sherlock doesn’t answer again and Jim just lets him breath. “Just sit with me, then.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock traces his long fingers through the water, patterns and figure eights and when he gets too close Jim threatens: “Don’t you dare, this is Westwood.”

He gets a laugh. “Clothing still a vice, then.”

“One of my weaknesses,” Jim still eyes those hands, “yes.”

“There are others?” He looks up and Sherlock’s smiling, at last, gun just at his side but forsaken enough that Jim can look to the balcony, tell his man (wordlessly, obviously) to fuck off.

“Oh yes,” Jim says, “you, for example.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Me? No,” he turns, gaze some attempt, and success, at piercing, it pins Jim in place. “You’re my weakness.”

“Can’t we just agree to be each other’s?”

It’s not until he says it that the connotations clear, he isn’t sure he minds.

Sherlock just smiles.

-

At the first sounds of the sirens Jim hops up, grabs Sherlock’s hand, dragging him up too. “Unless you want to get caught,” he says, pointedly.

“No, of course not – you go – I’ll stay. I’ll tell them-“

Jim smiles, squeezes his hand before letting go of it, “You’ll think of something.”

He leaves and he knows, he just _knows_ that Sherlock has no intention of staying behind.

Sherlock’s following prowess leaves a little to be desired but Jim pretends, humours him, lets him think he’s sneaky. Lets himself be followed through London to his (current) actual flat, a much nicer, bigger, open planned space with everything he needs. Lets Sherlock not even bother to hide as he leads him down the corridor to the plain front door.

He lets Sherlock grab his arm, whirl him around, press him fast against the wall of his own flat.

Jim kisses him first, doesn’t let him take that, starts at his neck, biting, sucking blood bruises – _marking_ like he never did, not really, before and Sherlock moans and it’s heady and intoxicating and Jim has never been so glad of an outcome in his life.

Sherlock’s hunger is obvious, his need to claim – to touch, to taste, to feel everything he’s been missing for the past two years and Jim is happy to oblige him, happy for the deep kisses that leave them both struggling to breathe.

Sherlock mutters to him, when he can, between kisses and gasps and moans, mutters threats and promises that make Jim’s head spin.

Dimly, he wonders what John Watson is thinking now, whether he’s assumed the worst, that Sherlock’s dead. He wonders if the big brother will approve of the missile plans drowned at the bottom of a pool that’s seen its share of death.

None of it matters, not now.

-

 _fin_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smutty coda will be written at some point. thank you for your support :)

**Author's Note:**

> aha this was a bugger to write.  
> oh and title from kyla la grange's Walk ;)


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